listress 


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THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   RANCH 


a 


BY 

FREDERICK  THICKSTUN  CLARK 

AUTHOR  OF  "  ON  CLOUD  MOUNTAIN  "  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 
1897 


BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR. 


ON  CLOUD  MOUNTAIN.  A  Novel.  By  FBBDKRICK 
THIOKSTUN  CLA.BK.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
$1  00. 

Far  above  the  average  in  the  freshness  of  its  plot,  the 
lifelikeness  of  its  characters,  and  the  skilful  portraiture 
of  conditions  rapidly  passing  away.  The  author  has 
.  .  .  with  rare  power  pictured  the  rough  and  virile  life 
and  the  strong  and  free  play  of  human  passions  so  charac 
teristic  of  the  newer  West.— Christian  Intelligencer,  N.  Y. 

PUBLISHED   BY   HARPER   &    BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


Copyright.  1897,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  riqhtt  reterved. 


955 


THE  MISTKESS  OF  THE  EANCH 


M711588 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  RANCH 


CHAPTER  I 

PHCEBE  ELLEN*  bounced  off  the  train  and  squared  her 
self  on  the  depot  platform,  one  foot  in  advance  of  the 
other. 

"  "Well,  where  is  he  ?"  she  demanded. 

Anny,  having  remained  till  a  full  stop  made  her  de 
scent  from  the  car  less  spectacular,  had  to  walk  some 
distance  down  the  planking  before  coming  up  with  her 
sister.  They  appeared  of  about  the  same  age,  but  Anny 
was  not  so  blond,  and  her  eyes  were  larger  and  calmer. 
Her  mouth,  too,  wore  a  look  of  habitual  repose,  while 
Phoebe  Ellen's  always  seemed  quivering  under  the  strain 
of  aggressive  speech. 

They  halted  side  by  side  near  the  station  building,  with 
their  oil-cloth  satchels  in  their  hands. 

"Not  a  waggin  in  sight!"  continued  Phoebe  Ellen, 
stabbing  her  eyes  into  the  distance  on  all  sides.  "  Didn't 
he  say  he'd  meet  us  to  the  train  ?  Wasn't  them  his  words  ? 
Where's  that  letter  ?  Oh,  ye  needn't  hunt  it  up.  I 
know  he  said  he'd  meet  us  to  the  train.  I've  seen  folks 
in  my  time  't  didn't  know  a  promise  from  their  own  lazi 
ness,  V  made  shore  they  was  doin'  all  they  ever  said  they 
would  when  they  sot  aroun'  wonderm'  why  folks  wa'n't 
satisfied.  Well"  (she  deposited  her  satchel  on  the  plat 
form  with  an  energy  which  seemed  to  distrust  the  ability 
of  gravity  alone  to  perform  that  function),  "here  we  be, 

but  where's  Sam  Tinker  ?" 
i 


Her  attitude  of  challenge  included  everything  in  sight, 
even  the  mountains.  They  looked  serene  and  passive  and 
altogether  manageable,,  as  was  fitting  and  proper,  consid 
ering  the  presence  in  which  they  found  themselves.  On 
the  whole,  Phoebe  Ellen  concluded  that  she  had  no  quar 
rel  with  the  Rocky  Mountains.  But  Sam  Tinker — where 
was  he  ? 

Anny  understood  when  she  was  expected  to  answer  her 
sister's  questions.  She  said  nothing  now.  Her  eyes  were 
upon  the  retreating  train,  which  was  coughing  its  way 
toilsomely  up  grade.  It  disappeared  with  a  final  switch 
of  its  dragon's  tail  behind  a  spur  of  the  foot-hills,  and  her 
eyes  wandered  out  to  the  mountains. 

"I  like  'em/'  she  meditated.  "They  look  like  they 
had  big,  kind  thoughts." 

But  Phoebe  Ellen  had  begun  again. 

"Anything  I  hate,  it's  foolin'  with  a  promise  ;  V  it's 
'&  common  'a  whiskers.  AVell  !  They  ain't  no  promises 
in  heaven,  fer  they  ain't  no  men  there — that's  a  comfort. 
Tinker!"  She  repeated  the  word  with  a  forced  calm. 
"  Ye  might  know  by  the  name  ye  never  could  tell  where 
to  put  yer  finger  on  'im.  Tinker  !  Shall  we  set  down 
V  wait  ?  The  very  name  o'  that  man  goes  agin  me.  It 
means  wait,  it  spells  wait.  Half  the  folks  in  this  'ere 
world  seems  to  think  all  the  other  half  's  got  to  do  's  to 
set  aroun'  a-prayin'  fer  'em  to  keep  their  'p'intments  V 
smirk  V  look  happy  if  they  show  up  afore  doomsday. 
Well,  if  Sam  Tinker  comes  V  finds  me  a-waitin',  he'll 
want  to  bile  the  greetin'  he  gits  from  me.  It  won't  be 
tender !" 

Anny  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  mountains. 

"Mebbe  suthin'  's  happened,"  she  suggested.  Her 
voice  contrasted  agreeably  with  the  nipping  and  eager 
tones  of  her  sister. 

Phoebe  Ellen  took  up  the  word  in  a  voice  of  acute  ob 
jection. 


3 


"  What  could  V  happened  ?  He  said  he'd  be  'ere,  V 
that  orter  settle  it.  He  'ain't  no  bizness  to  let  nothin' 
happen.  If  he  seen  anything  happening  he  orter  'a'  flaxed 
aroun'  'n'  hendered  it.  Let's  go  V  ast  the  depot-man  if 
lie  knows." 

She  seized  her  satchel  once  more,  and,  with  a  sudden 
turn,  advanced  upon  the  station-master.  Her  stride  was 
martial,  she  looked  determined  to  return  with  her  shield 
or  upon  it.  The  man  was  trundling  a  truck  down  the 
platform,  and  he  vibrated  from  head  to  foot  in  sympathy 
with  the  rumbling  of  the  vehicle.  Anny  moved  in  that 
direction,  too.  She  always  looked  as  if  dragged  in  the 
wake  of  her  sister  on  one  of  the  minor  waves  of  that  strong 
individuality. 

"Say,  you,  there — you  depot-man!"  called  Phoebe  El 
len,  flourishing  her  satchel.  The  official  stopped  and 
faced  about,  leaning  against  the  slant  end  of  his  truck. 
He  had  a  mottled  complexion  of  chemical  pink,  which 
was  still  further  complicated  by  numerous  freckles  of  va 
rious  degrees  of  brownness.  Several  tufts  of  week-old 
blond  beard  were  discoverable  on  unexpected  corners  of 
his  face. 

"  Ye  inns'  be  the  Thompson  gals,  I  reckon  ?"  he  in 
quired,  with  some  awkwardness,  pushing  his  hat  forward 
and  brushing  up  his  soft  yellow  hair  behind. 

The  girls  stared  at  each  other  as  if  trying  to  decide  to 
what  extent  the  greeting  was  supernatural.  Phoebe  Ellen 
recovered  first.  She  always  did. 

"How  'd  you  know?"  she  demanded,  with  a  warlike 
fling  of  her  head  to  one  side. 

The  depot-man  grinned.  He  was  more  at  his  ease  than 
his  first  sheepishness  would  have  led  one  to  suppose. 

"Oh,  they's  little  birds  aroun'  in  these  parts,"  he  re 
marked. 

"'N'  they  talk,  do  they  ?"  snorted  Phoebe  Ellen.  "'N' 
they  live  aroun'  the  depot,  do  they  ?  'N'  they  wheel 


Her  attitude  of  challenge  included  everything  in  sight, 
even  the  mountains.  They  looked  serene  and  passive  and 
altogether  manageable,,  as  was  fitting  and  proper,  consid 
ering  the  presence  in  which  they  found  themselves.  On 
the  whole,  Phoebe  Ellen  concluded  that  she  had  no  quar 
rel  with  the  Rocky  Mountains.  But  Sam  Tinker — where 
was  he  ? 

Anny  understood  when  she  was  expected  to  answer  her 
sister's  questions.  She  said  nothing  now.  Her  eyes  were 
upon  the  retreating  train,  which  was  coughing  its  way 
toilsomely  up  grade.  It  disappeared  with  a  final  switch 
of  its  dragon's  tail  behind  a  spur  of  the  foot-hills,  and  her 
eyes  wandered  out  to  the  mountains. 

"I  like  'em,"  she  meditated.  "They  look  like  they 
had  big,  kind  thoughts." 

But  Phoebe  Ellen  had  begun  again. 

"Anything  I  hate,  it's  foolin'  with  a  promise  ;  V  it's 
'&  common  's  whiskers.  Well  !  They  ain't  no  promises 
in  heaven,  fer  they  ain't  no  men  there — that's  a  comfort. 
Tinker!"  She  repeated  the  word  with  a  forced  calm. 
"  Ye  might  know  by  the  name  ye  never  could  tell  where 
to  put  yer  finger  on  'im.  Tinker  !  Shall  we  set  down 
V  wait  ?  The  very  name  o'  that  man  goes  agin  me.  It 
means  wait,  it  spells  wait.  Half  the  folks  in  this  'ere 
world  seems  to  think  all  the  other  half  's  got  to  do  's  to 
set  aroun'  a-prayin'  fer  'em  to  keep  their  'p'intments  'n' 
smirk  'n'  look  happy  if  they  show  up  afore  doomsday. 
Well,  if  Sam  Tinker  comes  V  finds  me  a-waitin',  he'll 
want  to  bile  the  greetin'  he  gits  from  me.  It  won't  be 
tender  I" 

Anny  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  mountains. 

"Mebbe  suthin'  's  happened,"  she  suggested.  Her 
voice  contrasted  agreeably  with  the  nipping  and  eager 
tones  of  her  sister. 

Phoebe  Ellen  took  up  the  word  in  a  voice  of  acute  ob 
jection. 


"  What  could  V  happened  ?  He  said  he'd  be  'ere,  V 
that  orter  settle  it.  He  'ain't  no  bizness  to  let  nothin' 
happen.  If  he  seen  anything  happening  he  orter  V  flaxed 
aroun'  V  hendered  it.  Let's  go  V  ast  the  depot-man  if 
lie  knows." 

She  seized  her  satchel  once  more,  and,  with  a  sudden 
turn,  advanced  upon  the  station-master.  Her  stride  was 
martial,  she  looked  determined  to  return  with  her  shield 
or  upon  it.  The  man  was  trundling  a  truck  down  the 
platform,  and  he  vibrated  from  head  to  foot  in  sympathy 
with  the  rumbling  of  the  vehicle.  Anny  moved  in  that 
direction,  too.  She  always  looked  as  if  dragged  in  the 
wake  of  her  sister  on  one  of  the  minor  waves  of  that  strong 
individuality. 

"  Say,  you,  there — you  depot-man  !"  called  Phoebe  El 
len,  flourishing  her  satchel.  The  official  stopped  and 
faced  about,  leaning  against  the  slant  end  of  his  truck. 
He  had  a  mottled  complexion  of  chemical  pink,  which 
was  still  further  complicated  by  numerous  freckles  of  va 
rious  degrees  of  brownness.  Several  tufts  of  week-old 
blond  beard  were  discoverable  on  unexpected  corners  of 
his  face. 

"  Ye  mus'  be  the  Thompson  gals,  I  reckon  ?"  he  in 
quired,  with  some  awkwardness,  pushing  his  hat  forward 
and  brushing  up  his  soft  yellow  hair  behind. 

The  girls  stared  at  each  other  as  if  trying  to  decide  to 
what  extent  the  greeting  was  supernatural.  Phoebe  Ellen 
recovered  first.  She  always  did. 

"How  'd  you  know?"  she  demanded,  with  a  warlike 
fling  of  her  head  to  one  side. 

The  depot-man  grinned.  He  was  more  at  his  ease  than 
his  first  sheepishness  would  have  led  one  to  suppose. 

"Oh,  they's  little  birds  aroun'  in  these  parts,"  he  re 
marked. 

'"W  they  talk,  do  they  ?"  snorted  Phoebe  Ellen.  <"N' 
they  live  aroun'  the  depot,  do  they  ?  'W  they  wheel 


trucks  V  git  funny  with  strangers,  do  they  ?"  She  gave 
a  scornful'exhalation  and  drew  her  right  shoulder  up  to 
her  ear.  "  Well,  say,  now,  'ud  ye  mind  comin'  down  off'm 
the  bough  fer  a  minute,  Birdie,  'n'  tellin'  us  whether  they's 
sech  a  man  livin'  in  these  'ere  parts  's  Sam  Tinker  ?" 

The  depot-man  still  grinned,  but  he  answered  with  a 
sort  of  roseate  meekness  which  was  probably  his  form  of 
apology. 

"  I  didn't  go  to  do  nothin'  to  rile  ye,"  he  said,  first  rub 
bing  his  nose  and  then  the  back  of  his  neck.  "  It  was 
Sam  hisself  't  tole  me  'bout  ye.  He  said  he'd  be  'ere  to 
the  arternoon  up  train  to  meet  ye." 

Phoebe  Ellen  fetched  a  long  breath,  as  if  here  at  last 
was  a  clew. 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?"  Then  suddenly  making  the 
depot-man  responsible,  "  Well,  then,  why  ain't  he  'ere  ?" 

He  scratched  his  ear  in  perplexity. 

"  Give  it  up  !"  was  his  final  answer,  with  an  outward 
fling  of  his  hand.  "Mebbe  he's  dead." 

Phoebe  Ellen  stiffened  herself. 

"He'll  wish  't  he  was  when  I  lay  eyes  on  'im  !  Won't 
I  give  it  to  'im  ?  Oh  no  !" 

The  depot-man's  smile  was  so  genial  that  in  spite  of 
herself  Phoebe  Ellen's  mouth  relaxed.  There  were  hu 
morous  lines  in  her  face  when  she  was  not  frowning. 

He  adjusted  his  truck  parallel  with  the  cracks  in  the 
platform,  as  if  there  were  some  special  virtue  in  that  ar 
rangement,  and  took  time  to  meditate.  "  When  Dan 
Thompson  died  over  there  on  the  Rio  Grande,  he  left  his 
property  to  his  sister  Anny.  Now,  which  o'  these  is 
Anny,  I  wonder  ?" 

Aloud  he  said  : 

"Sam  was  over  yistiddy,  V  he  tole  me  he'd  be  'ere  to 
day  afore  you  was.  Suthin'  must  'a'  happened.  He  allus 
keeps  'is  word." 

Phoebe  Ellen  snorted  again. 


"A  Tinker  't  keeps  'is  word  !"  She  suddenly  turned 
on  him  with  a  malicious  smile.  "  Is  yer  reel  name  Birdie?" 
she  inquired.  She  cocked  her  head  and  examined  him 
with  one  eye  half  closed. 

The  depot-man  twisted  his  heel  into  a  knot-hole  and 
looked  confused.  But  he  went  on  wondering.  "The 
talker  mus'  be  Anny.  The  other  un.  's  fatter  V  purtier, 
but  she  don't  look  so  sassy." 

But  aloud  he  said,  with  his  peculiar  pink  acquiescence  : 

"I  reckon  they  ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  keep  my  name 
from  ye  if  ye're  goin'  to  make  yer  home  in  these  parts. 
They  call  me  Pinky."  He  withdrew  his  heel,  grew  redder 
as  he  examined  it,  then  rubbed  his  neck  softly  with  his 
left  hand. 

His  air  of  deprecation  had  no  effect  on  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"Pinky?"  she  cried.  "How  purty !  I  'spected  if 
'twan't  Birdie  it  'ud  be  Daisy,  or  Petunia,  or  suthin'.  But 
Pinky  !  How  sweet !  Jes'  the  name  fer  a  feller  't  'ud 
b'lieve  anybody  named  Tinker  could  keep  'is  word  !" 

Pinky's  blood  overflowed  his  features  in  a  purple  flood, 
but  presently  his  freckles  emerged  into  view  once  more, 
like  a  lot  of  corks  bobbing  on  rough  water. 

"'Tain't  my  reel  name,"  he  explained.  "My  reel 
name  's  Rose — Dick  Eose.  The  fellers  'ere  is  terrors  fer 
nicknames,  V  it  didn't  take  'em  a  minute  to  see  't  my 
name  V  my  color  went  together,  V  that  fixed  me." 

"  Pinky  Rose  !"  murmured  Phoebe  Ellen,  examining 
him  from  head  to  foot  and  all  too  obviously  connecting 
the  luridness  of  the  name  with  the  luridness  of  the  man. 

"/don't  keer,"  declared  Pinky,  with  grinning  defiance, 
"/ain't  a-goin'  to  run  fer  office." 

"Nor  git  married  ?"  inquired  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  Well,  I 
b'lieve  ye  !"  Then  with  a  backward  jerk  of  her  blond 
head,  "I  ain't  a-goin'  to  pick  no  quar'l  with  yer  name — 
I'm  a  gal  o'  peace  V  harmony,  'n'  I  keep  my  feet  off'm 
my  neighbors  's  long  's  they  don't  lay  aroun'  permisc'us 


fer  me  to  stumble  over.  So  ye  stair*  up  fer  Sam  Tinker, 
do  ye  ?  Fm  interested  in  him."  Her  emphasis  was  ex 
clusive.  Pinky  felt  it,  and  resolved  to  say  nothing  more 
about  himself.  "Ye  know  he's  goin'  to  look  arter  the 
ranch  fer  a  while." 

"  She  is  Anny,"  thought  the  depot-man.  He  had  no 
comprehension  of  Phoebe  Ellen's  habits  of  assumption 
and  appropriation.  "  Yes/'  he  said,  aloud, ' '  Sam  tole  me 
how  yer  brother  Dan  -made  'im  promise  to  stay  a  year  V 
look  arter  things." 

"  Yes,  V  this  is  the  way  he  begins.  Oh,  /  know  his 
kind— small  pertaters  V  few  in  a  hill.  Look  at  the  trick 
he's  gone  'n'  played  on  us  fust  off  !  He'll  want  us  to 
kiss  'im  how  -  d'ye  -  do,  won't  he  ?  Like  's  not  he'll  be 
'spectin'  a  bokay  V  a  chromo  fer  ever  comin'  't  all !  It's 
lyin> —  that's  what  it  'ud  be  called  back  East  there  in 
Nebrasky  !" 

' 'Oh,  not  lyin'," Pinky  argued,  in  meek  expostulation. 
"This  ain't  a  kentry  o'  liars — the  boys  stan's  by  their 
word,  they  ain't  cowards.  'N'  Sam—" 

"Sam's  a  little  George  Washington  with  tin  wings, 
ain't  he  ?  Lor',  is  this  heaven  ?  Sis,  does  this  look  like 
heaven  ?"  She  swept  her  masterful  glance  along  the 
dreary  alkali  park  and  back  to  the  unwholesome  excres 
cence  of  half  a  dozen  huts  which  constituted  Eden  City. 

"  It  ain't  heaven,  's  I  knows  on,"  replied  Anny,  with 
the  pretty,  serious  drawl  which  was  her  distinctive  form 
of  speech.  "But  they  may  be  honest  men  'ere,  fer  all 
that.  I'm  glad  Sam  Tinker's  honest,"  she  added  to 
Pinky.  "Brother  Dan  was  mos'ly  a  good  jedge  o'  folks." 

"Sam  '11  treat  ye  square,"  said  Pinky. 

"He  will !"  put  in  Phoebe  Ellen,  with  emphasis.  "I'll 
keep  my  eyes  on  'im.  I  never  yit  seen  a  man  't  I'd  trust 
's  fur  's  I  could  throw  'im  by  his  coat-tails.  If  he  'spects 
to  git  ahead  o'  me,  he'll  have  to  git  up  airly  in  the  morn- 
in',  I  kin  tell  'im  that.  I  kin  run  that  ranch  myself,  on 


a  pinch.  I  looked  arter  the  place  back  East  there  in 
Nebrasky,  'n'  I  kin  do  it  'ere,  arter  I  git  used  to  the  erry- 
gation  V  sech." 

She  turned  on  the  depot-man  with  abrupt  question 
ing. 

"How  fur  's  the  ranch  from  'ere,  anyhow?"  she 
asked. 

"Seven  mile." 

"I  made  shore  I  'membered.  That  ain't  bad.  When 
we  git  lonesome  we  can  come  over  V  have  a  visit 
with  ye." 

Pinky  accepted  this  mark  of  favor  with  open  delight. 

tf  That's  right !  Come  over — come  over  often.  It  ain't 
heaven  'ere,  's  ye  said  yerself,  if  it  is  called  Eden  City. 
Still,  it  might  be  wuss.  W'y,  if  this  'ere  kentry  had 
plenty  o'  water  V  good  people,  it  'ud  be  a  regular  para 
dise  !" 

"  So  'ud  hell,"  was  Phoebe  Ellen's  laconic  retort.  She 
intended  nothing  funny  or  irreverent,  merely  a  statement 
of  fact ;  but  her  speech  so  doubled  Pinky  up  with  laugh 
ter  that  she  was  obliged  to  laugh,  too.  She  always  looked 
less  thin-lipped  and  more  likable  when  she  laughed. 

"Ye  might  come  over  to  the  ranch  V  visit  us,  arter 
we  git  settled,"  she  said,  after  he  had  sobered  down. 
"We'd  be  glad  to  see  ye — wouldn't  we,  sis  ?" 

The  pretty  sister  smiled  acquiescence. 

"Queer  how  they  don't  call  each  other  by  their  fust 
names,"  reflected  Pinky.  "I  ain't  heerd  'em  do  it  yit." 
Aloud  he  said,  "  Oh,  I'll  come  over,  shore.  Pete  Haw 
kins —  he  lives  there  in  the  fust  cabin  to  the  left  —  he 
takes  my  place  when  I  want  a  off-day.  He's  got  the  post- 
office,  V  runs  a  s'loon  V  dry  goods  V  groceries.  I've 
seen  'im  peekin'  out  fifty  times  or  more  sence  ye  come — 
he's  powerful  bashful.  That's  why  he  wa'n't  'ere  when 
the  train  come  in,  though  they  was  sev'ral  kegs  fer  'im. 
He  knowed  ye  was  comin',  V  ye  couldn't  V  dragged  'im 


over  with  ropes.  He  says  't  a  man  't  kin  stan'  up  V  face 
a  gal  's  a  genyus.  He  allus  laffs  at  me  'cause  I  do  it  so 
easy.  He  calls  me  a  doode." 

Phoebe  Ellen  looked  him  over  from  the  tips  of  his  cow 
boy  boots  to  the  crown  of  his  cowboy  hat,  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  each  separately,  then  deliberately  traced  the  surging 
blood  from  his  cheeks  to  his  temples,  from  his  temples 
behind  his  ears,  and  thence,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  half-way 
down  his  back  ;  then,  woman-like,  at  the  moment  when 
he  expected  annihilation,  she  spared  him. 

"  Wot  direction  ort  that  Tinker  o'  your'n  to  come  from, 
anyhow  ?"  she  inquired.  "  Somehow  Fve  took  a  tnrble 
hatred  o'  that  man  V 

Pinky  pointed  with  a  thin,  freckled  hand. 

"Ye  see  that  foot-hill  spur  joggin'  out  there  jest  above 
the  ruff  o'  the  s'loon  ?  "Well,  the  road  comes  down  the 
farther  side  o'  that.  Goin'  over,  ye  have  to  climb  up  V 
down  all  the  way,  but  down  mos'ly ;  then  all  to  wunst  ye 
turn  a  sharp  corner,  V  there  ye  be  in  a  green  valley 
lower  down  'n  this,  with  mountains  all  aroun'  V  a  river 
in  it.  That's  the  Eio  Grande."  He  gave  the  name 
a  drawling  English  pronunciation.  "  It's  jest  a  lit 
tle  river  there,  but  it's  orfle  clear  V  purty.  'N'  the 
ranch  is  one  o'  the  best  in  the  State.  Everybody  says 
so." 

"  I'll  be  glad  to  live  in  a  green  kentry,"  spoke  up  Anny. 
"I  useter  git  dretful  sick  o'  Nebrasky." 

"  I'm  glad  it's  dif  rent  from  Eden  City,"  declared 
Phoebe  Ellen.  "This  is  wuss  'n  Nebrasky." 

"No,"  said  Anny,  softly.  "They  ain't  no  mountains 
there." 

"Some  un  's  comin'  down  the  foot-hill  road," said  Pinky, 
suddenly.  "Jes'  by  the  low  end  o'  the  mesa — see  ?"  He 
was  shading  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and  pointing  with  the 
other. 

"  Is  it   that   Tinker  o'  your'n  ?"   asked  Phoebe  Ellen. 


She  seemed  determined  to  hold  him  responsible  for  the 
transgressor. 

"  They  ain't  no  one  else  in  these  parts  't  drives  a  buck- 
board  with  one  gray  hoss  V  a  mustang.  Yes,  it's  Sam." 

"  Well,  I'm  ready  fer  'im/'  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  shutting 
her  lips  tight. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHILE  waiting  for  the  delinquent  to  come  up,  Phoebe 
Ellen's  eyes  wandered  over  the  shabby,  tent-roofed  cabins, 
the  brush  palings,  the  sordid  yards  with  their  accumula 
tions  of  tin  cans  and  beer  bottles  —  the  whole  human 
effort  which  affronted  Nature  and  which  Nature  was  too 
feeble  to  resent.  A  burro  set  up  its  braying  just  beyond 
the  track.  A  melancholy  hen  close  by  Pete  Hawkins's 
saloon  was  mourning  over  an  egg  she  had  just  dropped  in 
the  dirt.  The  yellowish  gray  of  the  park  was  blotched 
here  and  there  with  the  leprous  inflorescence  of  alkali ;  the 
only  bit  of  color  to  be  seen  was  an  occasional  bunch  of 
cardinal  cactus,  as  red  as  if  the  ground  had  been  stabbed 
and  the  blood  had  oozed  out  and  coagulated.  Man  should 
have  left  the  place  alone ;  for  in  subduing  it  he  had  ad 
mitted  the  devil  as  a  partner.  But  on  all  sides  the  moun 
tains  rose,  showing  that  beyond  the  "  city  "  limits  God 
still  reigned. 

Pinky  went  on  meditating.  "  I've  seen  Sam  Tinker  in 
some  mighty  ticklish  places  in  my  time,  but  never  in  a 
row  with  a  woomarn.  If  a  feller  was  to  jump  on  'im  fer 
a  fist-fight — well,  that  feller  wouldn't  jump  much  afore 
he'd  be  laid  out ;  if  it  was  pistols,  I'd  bet  dollars  to  chew- 
in'-gum  on  the  sun  a-shinin'  through  the  other  feller 
fust ;  but  a  woomarn — what  kin  he  do  ?  'LI  he  turn  tail 
V  run  ?  The  idee  o'  Sam  runnin' !  But  wot  else  is  tey 
fer  a  man  to  do  ?  He  can't  fight— he  can't  stan'  V  take 
it.  Think  o'  Sam  Tinker  runnin'  away  from  anything 
with  two  legs  !  'N'  the  heiress— look  at  'er.  That's  wot 
my  ole  mother  useter  call  facin'  a  frownin'  world." 


11 


Phoebe  Ellen  had  deposited  her  satchel  once  more  upon 
the  platform,  and  had  taken  her  stand  in  front  of  it  in  an 
attitude  of  battle.  She  stood  very  straight,  her  arms 
folded  tightly  across  her  breast,  her  back  hollowed  in,  one 
foot  in  advance  of  the  other.  There  were  hard  wrinkles 
from  the  corners  of  her  nose  to  her  mouth,  and  her  lips 
looked  very  thin. 

Army  stood  considerably  in  the  rear,  fully  aware  of  the 
gravity  of  the  situation,  but  conscious  of  the  futility  of 
interference.  She  was  frowning,  too,  but  with  anxiety. 
Her  eyes  looked  helpless,  and  now  and  then  there  was  a 
deprecative  tremor  about  her  lips. 

The  wagon  drew  nearer  down  the  winding  road.  The 
dust  rose  in  a  hazy  yellow  cloud,  hiding  the  horses  and 
vehicle  at  times,  then  floating  away  into  filaments  and 
wreaths,  and  disappearing  in  final  faint  sun-glimmers.  A 
little  beyond  Pete  Hawkins's  saloon  the  driver  became 
visible — a  huge  creature  in  a  gray  sombrero,  bending  the 
shoulders  of  Hercules  carelessly  over  the  loose-held  reins. 
He  wore  overalls  and  a  brown  mining-jacket  with  copper 
rivets  at  the  corners  of  the  pockets.  Now  he  straightened 
his  shoulders  and  lifted  his  head  in  an  attitude  of  atten 
tion,  examining  the  occupants  of  the  platform  with  in 
terest. 

Pinky  sent  him  a  lusty  greeting. 

"  Hello,  Chris'mas  !  Fin'ly  got  'ere,  have  ye  ?  Train's 
come  V  gone  half  a  hour  ago  !" 

Before  answering,  the  man  took  time  to  bend  back  the 
brim  of  his  hat  into  an  impromptu  halo,  and  his  counte 
nance,  thus  relieved  of  shadow,  took  the  sunlight  in  a 
generous  gleam.  It  was  a  full,  strong  face,  inspiring  re 
spect  by  the  manly  completeness  of  its  physical  outline 
as  well  as  by  the  evidence  of  soul  behind  it.  There  was 
strength  of  will  in  the  projecting  chin,  and  gentleness  in 
the  upward  curve  of  the  mouth  at  the  corners.  He  had 
a  complexion  of  ruddy  brown,  through  which  his  eyes 


12 

gleamed  kindly.  His  level  brows  looked  as  if  they  seldom 
frowned,  and  never  without  good  reason.  His  mouth  had 
broadened  in  response  to  Pinky's  greeting,  displaying  a 
set  of  perfect  teeth  beneath  a  heavy  brown  mustache. 

(t  Hello,  yerself  !"  came  back  the  answer,  in  a  voice 
which  had  a  healthy  depth  of  lung  behind  it. 

And  presently  Sam  Tinker  was  backing  his  wagon 
against  the  planking  in  a  position  for  the  women  to  mount 
easily  from  the  rear.  Then  he  flung  the  reins  over  the 
dashboard,  straddled  the  two  seats  at  two  slow  strides, 
and  with  a  third  came  down  upon  the  platform  with  a 
force  which  shook  that  structure  to  its  base. 

1 '  Well,  hello  \"  he  called  out,  in  ponderous  welcome  to 
the  two  women. 

But  he  was  confronted  by  silence— and  Phoebe  Ellen 
with  her  arms  akimbo. 

"Well!"  was  her  greeting,  shrilly  pitched,  while  she 
drew  herself  in  at  the  waist  and  leaned  forward  as  if  peck 
ing  at  him  with  a  long,  sharp  bill.  "  So  ye've  come,  have 
ye  ?"  She  straightened  herself  with  a  jerk  and  stood 
stiffly,  glaring  up  at  him. 

He  was  so  big  that  he  had  the  advantage  over  her  even 
in  a  combat  of  words  ;  for  length,  breadth,  and  thickness 
have  tongues  of  their  own  and  speak  even  before  they  are 
spoken  to.  The  smile  slowly  faded  from  his  face,  and  he 
looked  down  at  her  with  grave  examination,  as  if  still  un 
certain  of  the  spirit  of  her  greeting.  But  the  battlesome 
attitude,  the  shrill  voice,  the  twisted  mouth,  the  hysteri 
cal  defiance  of  a  woman  in  a  rage,  left  him  no  long  occa 
sion  for  doubt.  He  pushed  his  hat  a  little  farther  back 
— the  movement  displayed  a  tangle  of  moist  brown  hair 
close-packed  against  a  low  forehead  —  and,  settling  the 
weight  of  his  body  easily  upon  one  leg,  extended  his  ex 
amination  from  her  face  to  her  dress  and  thence  to  her 
feet. 

The  carelessness  of  his  movement  and  pose  brought  the 


13 


fire  into  Phoebe  Ellen's  eye.  She  began  with  apostrophic 
scorn  : 

"  So  this  'ere's  wot  it  means  to  take  the  live-stock  o'  a 
ranch  'thout  seem'  'em,  even  when  it's  a  dead  brother  't 
recommends  'em  !"  Her  furious  glance  left  the  cowboy 
in  no  doubt  as  to  whom  she  referred  to  as  live-stock. 
"This  'ere's  the  kind  o'  cattle  I'm  'spected  to  pervide 
paster  'n'  fodder  fer,  'cordin'  to  my  dead  brother's  wishes, 
'n'  git  nothin'  in  return  but  the  right  to  stan'  aroun', 
wearin'  my  legs  short  with  waitin',  while  they're  kickin' 
up  their  heels  somers  with  joy  on  the  range  !  This  'ere's 
wot  it  means  to  take  hired  men  on  charity,  askin'  nothin' 
in  return  but  to  be  treated  white  fer  it !  This  'ere's  the 
way  the  hired  han's  lays  out  to  come  it  over  me  from  the 
start,  imposin'  on  me  'count  o'  my  weakness  fer  my  dead 
brother,  'n'  settin'  theirselves  up  above  me,  showin'  me 
they  mean  to  run  things  to  suit  theirselves  !  This  is  the 
sort — " 

"  Ye're  Miss  Anny,  I  reckon  ?"  he  asked,  still  eying 
her  with  the  placid  curiosity  which  marked  him  as  her 
superior,  and  which  made  her  blood  boil. 

Here  Anny  herself  seemed  on  the  point  of  interposing, 
but  Phcebe  Ellen  got  in  her  word  first.  She  had  no  in 
tention  of  denying  her  identity,  but  she  meant  to  es 
tablish  herself  once  for  all  as  her  sister's  equal  in  au 
thority. 

"  Well,  if  I  ain't,  ye  kin  take  it  fer  granted  I  know  'er 
idees.  Wot  d'ye  mean,  anyhow,  by  not  gittin'  'ere  till 
hours  arter  ye  said  ye  would  ?  'Ain't  ye  got  no  sense  o' 
promises  ?  Eeckon  I'm  a  picter  in  a  frame  to  be  sot  down 
'ere  on  the  platform  till  ye  happen  to  come  'long  'n'  cart 
me  off  permisc'ous  ?  Don't  ye  know  wot  a  lady  's  like,  to 
leave  'er  sprawlin'  'n'  straddlin'  aroun'  in  public  like  this  ? 
If  this  'ere's  a  spec'men  o'  yer  ways  'n'  doin's,  if  this  'ere's 
the  line  ye  'pose  to  fight  it  out  on,  I  want  to  tell  ye  right 
now  we'll  have  to  part  comp'ny,  V  the  sooner  the  quicker 


14 

— see  ?  None  o'  my  money  goes  to  s'port  that  kind  o' 
shif  lessness — V  ye  kin  jes'  bear  that  in  mind/' 

Sam  Tinker  waited  till  she  finished,  gave  her  a  final 
comprehensive  glance,  then  turned  to  Pinky. 

"That  her  trunk  ?"  he  asked,  in  an  emotionless  tone, 
pointing  with  a  huge  index  finger  to  a  receptacle  in 
pressed  zinc  a  little  way  up  the  platform. 

Pinky  nodded.  There  was  something  unusual  in  the 
cowboy's  face,  but  the  nature  of  the  expression  was  doubt 
ful.  Even  Phoebe  Ellen  began  to  feel  it  and  to  shift  un 
easily  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"  I'll  git  a  plank,  V  we'll  roll  it  into  the  back  o'  the 
buckboard  together,"  said  Pinky.  "  It's  turble  heavy." 

But  Sam  answered,  composedly,  "  No,  ye  needn't  mind. 
I  reckon  I  kin  manage  it." 

Phoebe  Ellen,  who  knew  precisely  how  heavy  that  trunk 
was,  inwardly  chuckled  as  the  giant  marched  up  to  it  and 
tested  its  weight  by  pulling  at  one  end.  "He'll  have  to 
call  on  Pinky  V  mebbe  both  o'  us  gals,"  she  thought, 
with  glee.  "  That  '11  make  'im  drop  'is  tail-feathers,  I 
reckon  !"  But  her  amazement  grew  to  the  splitting-point 
as  he  solemnly  spit  on  his  hands,  rubbed  them  together, 
then,  spreading  his  legs  Colossus-wise,  seized  the  trunk 
by  the  middle,  lifted  it  with  a  quivering  of  the  muscles 
of  the  hips  such  as  one  sees  in  a  horse  straining  uphill, 
and,  settling  it  comfortably  on  one  shoulder,  marched 
down  the  platform,  and  deposited  it  endwise  in  the  rear 
of  the  wagon. 

"  Is  he  the  devil  ?"  asked  Phoebe  Ellen,  more  of  her 
self  than  of  Anny,  but  loud  enough  for  the  latter  to  hear. 
"  It  took  me  V  you  V  the  hired  man  to  load  that  into 
the  waggin  to  home,  V  then  we  had  to  end  it  over  V 
over  up  a  pair  o'  planks."  She  advanced  a  little  closer 
to  the  giant,  his  supernatural  strength,  whether  as  man 
or  devil,  compelling  her  respect.  She  intended  to  say 
something  in  approval,  but  before  slie  had  time  to  open 


15 

her  mouth  he  turned  on  her  and  said,  with  an  utter  lack 
of  emotion  of  any  kind  : 

"Well,  I  reckon  it's  time  to  wish  ye  a  good-arternoon, 
Miss  Thompson.  Pinky  '11  pint  out  the  way  to  the  ranch 
fer  ye.  I'll  ride  over  in  the  mornin'  myself  fer  my  things. 
Good-arternoon !" 

Then  he  turned  his  back  and  strode  away. 

Phoebe  Ellen's  eyes  widened  on  the  retreating  figure. 
She  began  a  series  of  inarticulate  exclamations. 

"  Well !     Say  !     Lookee  'ere  !— " 

Her  jaw  dropped.  Her  face  had  a  stunned,  relaxed 
look. 

"He — he — where's  he  goin'  to  ?"  she  finally  demanded 
with  a  half -gasp,  turning  to  Pinky. 

Pinky  was  grinning  with  enjoyment,  either  at  her  dis 
comfiture  or  at  Sam's  wTay  out  of  his  difficulties. 

"  Looks  like  he  was  goin'  over  to  Pete  Hawkins's,  don't 
it  ?"  he  answered.  "  But  I  d'know.  It  may  be  Wilcox's 
— Wilcox  's  a  friend  o'  his,  'n'  he  hangs  out  in  the  nex' 
shanty.  No,  it's  Pete's — see  ?" 

"  I'll  pay  'im  out  fer  that,"  Phoebe  Ellen  muttered.  "  I 
never  was  treated  so  afore — never  !" 

She  looked  quite  pale. 

"Wot  d'  ye  reckon  he's  goin'  to  do  over  there  ?"  she 
inquired. 

"Take  a  observashun  fust  thing,  I  shouldn't  wonder.'3 

"  A  observashun  ?" 

"Through  the  bottom  o'  a  whiskey-glass.  Sam's  a 
thirsty  soul !" 

«  But— he'll  come  back  ?" 

"  I  didn't  git  the  idee  he  would.     He  didn't  look  it." 

"He  said  suthin'  'bout  ridin'  over  arter  his  things  in 
the  mornin7,  didn't  he  ?"  She  evidently  distrusted  her 
own  memory  of  what  had  transpired. 

"  That's  wot  he  said,"  Pinky  confirmed  her. 

"  But  he's  got  to  come  back  now — he's  my  hired  man — 


16 

he's  got  to  come  back  !  I — I'll  discharge  'im  V  git  'nother 
if  he  don't  come  back.  I'll  set  'im  a-packin'  if  he  don't 
comeback!  I'll- 

"  'Pears  like  he'd  gone  V  discharged  hisself,"  remarked 
Pinky,  in  his  half-deprecatory  way.  He  was  no  longer 
grinning,  but  seemed  wholly  intent  on  the  fair  stranger's 
troubles.  "  I  took  it  that  was  his  way  o'  settin'  hisself 
a-packin'.  Anyways,  that's  my  idee." 

"  But  wot's  the  matter  ?  Wot's  he  mad  at  ?  Can't  a 
gal  tell  a  hired  man  when  he's  gone  V  done  wrong  ? 
This  is  a  purty  kentry  !" 

"  Well,  'tain't  our  way  out  'ere  to  swoller  much  't  don't 
taste  good,  'n'  that's  a  fact.  'N'  Sam  kin  do  as  he  likes— 
he's  got  a  ranch  o'  his  own  down  in  Las  Animas.  He's 
jes'  nachelly  left  ye  to  look  out  fer  yerselves.  He  won't 
be  walked  over  by  nobody." 

"But  yell  at  'im — call  'im  back  !"  cried  Phoebe  Ellen, 
just  as  the  giant  was  entering  the  saloon. 

"Ho,  Sam !"  shouted  Pinky,  with  ready  obedience. 

The  huge  figure  turned  with  deliberation. 

"  Come  back  a  minute,  will  ye  ?" 

The  giant  considered.  Then,  as  if  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  after  weighing  all  the  pros  and  cons,  he  retraced  his 
steps  with  ponderous  slowness. 

"Well,  'ere  I  be,"  he  remarked,  pausing  a  little  way 
from  the  platform. 

"She  wanted  a  pow-wow,"  said  Pinky,  jerking  his 
thumb  in  Phoebe  Ellen's  direction. 

Sam  turned  his  large  face  full  upon  her.  It  was  a  face 
capable  of  only  one  expression  at  a  time,  and  that  of  some 
big,  incomplex  emotion.  Just  now  his  look  told  of  noth 
ing  except  a  desire  to  know  what  she  wanted.  His  re 
sentment — if  he  had  any — lay  below  a  simple,  serious  in 
quiry  as  to  what  was  expected  of  him. 

Phoebe  Ellen  met  his  composure  with  inward  trepida 
tion.  There  was  something  compelling  in  his  unresentful 


17 


simplicity — it  gave  him  an  advantage  which  would  have 
been  impossible  to  the  boisterous  anger  she  had  expected. 
In  calling  him  back  she  was  prepared  to  meet  him  with 
concessions ;  a  loss  of  personal  dignity  counted  but  little 
with  her  in  the  cause  of  her  interests,,  and  she  had  seen 
in  a  flash  that  her  interests — by  which  she  really  meant 
Anny's — depended  upon  retaining  this  man  in  her  service. 
But  the  look  of  him  as  he  stood  there,  huge,  unmanage 
able,  indifferently  inquiring,  overcame  her  with  a  sudden 
rage.  She  had  never  before  felt  herself  in  the  presence 
of  a  master,  and  this  cowboy's  attitude  of  cool  superiority 
galled  her  like  deliberate  insult.  She  flung  aside  conse 
quences  in  the  impulse  towards  satisfaction  which  with 
her  meant  fight. 

"AVell!"  she  cried,  bridling  like  a  mettlesome  horse 
and  hiding  an  involuntary  quavering  in  her  tone  by  a 
forced  use  of  breath.  "  So  ye  reckoned  ye  was  goin'  to 
run  off  'n'  leave  me,  did  ye  ?"  Even  to  her  own  ears  this 
interrogation  seemed  feeble,  but  she  could  think  of  noth 
ing  better.  "It's  plain  ye  don't  know  my  kind — but  ye 
will  afore  ye  git  through  with  me  !  Now,  lookee  'ere ;  ye  're 
my  hired  man,  d'  ye  see  ?  'N'  if  ye  know  wot's  good  fer 
them  big  bones  o'  yourn,  ye'll  toe  the  mark  I  make  fer  ye. 
Git  up  on  the  front  seat  o'  that  buckboard,  now,  quicker 
'n  th'  Lord  '11  let  ye,  V  take  them  reins  V  drive  us  over 
to  the  ranch.  I)'  ye  hear  ?" 

Sam  Tinker  looked  his  antagonist  over  with  a  careful 
attention  which  had  no  contempt  in  it,  but  possibly  a  hint 
of  amusement;  took  time  to  make  up  his  mind  that  a  direct 
reply  would  be  a  useless  waste  of  energy,  then  turned  to 
Pinky  with  massive  composure. 

"  Don't  yell  arter  me  ag'in,"  he  said.  "I'm  thirsty." 
And  he  started  once  more  for  the  saloon. 

Phoebe  Ellen,  beside  herself  with  rage,  rushed  after  him, 
shouting  and  brandishing  her  fists.  But  the  unheeding 
figure  marched  on  with  elephantine  dignity,  and  the  heavy 


18 

feet  came  down  with  dull  regularity  on  the  dry  adobe  soil. 
She  might  as  well  have  expected  to  order  one  of  the 
mountains  in  her  direction  and  have  it  obey.  Finally  she 
stopped,  helpless,  red  in  the  face,  furious,  flinging  herself, 
one  might  say,  in  two  directions  at  once. 

But  he  was  still  within  tongue's  reach  of  her. 

"  Come  back !"  she  screeched.  "  I  tell  ye  to  come 
back  !  If  ye  don't,  I'll—I'll—"  Then,  with  an  hysterical 
realization  of  the  uselessness  of  threat,  "Why  won't  ye 
come  back  ?"  she  finished,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

He  turned  with  a  smile  more  masterful  than  anything 
that  had  preceded  it. 

"  Oh,  I'd  jes  's  soon  tell  ye  why."  His  voice  was  calm 
and  slow.  "  I'm  used  to  the  devil  in  breeches,  V  I  know 
how  to  fight  'im;  but  in  petticoats" — he  spread  his  huge 
hands  towards  her,  palms  outward,  wagging  them  slowly 
to  right  and  left — "in  petticoats,  excuse  me."  And  with 
a  leisurely  stride  he  disappeared  in  the  saloon. 

Phoebe  Ellen  came  back  and  sat  down  on  the  platform. 
She  was  pale,  with  anger  partly,  but  with  some  other  emo 
tion  as  well. 

"I  wish  to  th'  Almighty  I  was  a  man,"  she  said,  after 
a  long  moment,  more  to  herself  than  to  her  companions. 

Anny  said  nothing,  but — 

"  Wot  'ud  ye  do  ?"  asked  Pinky. 

"  I'd  kill  that  critter— that's  wot  I'd  do  !" 

Pinky  stroked  his  chin  and  brushed  up  his  yellow  hair 
behind. 

"  It's  the  only  way  ye  could  git  ahead  o'  'im,"  he  said, 
with  a  grin. 


CHAPTER  III 

PHCEBE  ELLE^  braced  her  elbow  against  her  knee  and 
propped  her  chin  in  her  hand.  When  a  woman  of  lively 
tongue  and  slow  sensibilities  is  forced  to  face  the  conse 
quences  of  her  eloquence,  she  is  in  for  a  long  period  of 
meditation.  The  lively  tongue  has  run  ahead  of  self-in 
terest,  and  it  takes  time  for  the  slow  sensibilities  to  catch 
up  ;  and  when  they  do  they  are  not  always  equal  to  a 
proper  readjustment  of  moral  speed.  Phoebe  Ellen  was 
as  surprised  at  Sam  Tinker's  transformation  into  an  an 
tagonistic  force  as  if  her  ordinary  processes  had  turned  to 
acts  of  thaumaturgy,  and  a  demon  with  a  will  of  his  own 
had  been  evolved  instead  of  the  compliant  genius  of  her 
expectations.  She  could  not  understand  it.  She  was 
accustomed  to  scolding,  and  to  the  settlement  of  ends  by 
that  means.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  there  might 
be  natures  to  whom  such  a  settlement  was  impossible,  and 
to  whom  the  employment  of  such  means  was  an  affront. 
She  had  applied  her  ordinary  little  match  to  what  seemed 
the  ordinary  little  pile  of  kindling-wood,  and  that  an  ex 
plosion  occurred  was  no  more  to  be  accounted  for  than  are 
any  of  those  outbreaks  which  we  prepare  against  ourselves 
in  the  egotism  intended  to  forestall  such  result. 

Something  of  all  this  was  manifest  to  Pinky,  who,  real 
izing  that  there  was  no  more  fun  to  be  got  out  of  the 
situation  at  present,  busied  himself  about  some  freight  on 
another  part  of  the  platform.  It  was  mostly  kegs. 

As  for  Anny,  she  had  seated  herself  on  a  candle-box  at 
a  distance  from  the  station  building — a  coign  of  vantage 
from  which  she  could  see  the  mountains  on  all  sides. 


20 

They  took  her  eye  with  an  enchantment  which  was  new 
to  her.,  and  she  was  content  to  look  np  at  them  and  won 
der  and  adore.  She  found  a  rapturous  satisfaction  in 
tracing  the  outline  of  the  peaks  against  the  cloudless 
blue  ;  here  an  abrupt  upward  notch  in  the  sky-line,  there 
a  carefully  rounded  dome,  and  there  again  a  steady,  even, 
heavenward  slope,  up  which  she  could  almost  feel  the 
high  winds  racing.  The  gulches  made  purple  havoc  of 
the  shadows  all  along  the  foot-hills,  and  stretches  of  dis 
tant  pines  sent  murky  ripples  up  ridge  and  mesa. 

For  some  time  a  student  of  physiognomy  would  have 
discovered  in  Phoebe  Ellen's  face  nothing  but  a  look  of 
mingled  anger  and  surprise.  But  gradually  this  expres 
sion  gave  place  to  a  droop  of  self-distrust  in  the  muscles 
about  the  mouth  and  chin.  Then  she  began  to  look 
about  in  search  of  her  sister. 

"Sis  I"  she  called,  when  she  had  discovered  her. 

Anny  removed  her  eyes  from  the  white  peaks  with  a 
vacant  effort  at  attention,  and  for  a  minute  did  not  seem 
to  understand. 

"  Come  'ere  a  minute  !" 

She  arose  and  moved  forward,  the  look  of  wrapped  con 
templation  gradually  giving  place  to  her  habitual  expres 
sion  of  friendly  interest. 

"  We're  in  it,  ain't  we  ?"  Phoebe  Ellen  said,  with  a  faint 
little  smile  which  betrayed  the  shattered  self-confidence 
beneath  it. 

Anny  took  up  a  standing  position  at  her  sister's  side. 

"It  looks  that  way,"  she  admitted,  without  referring 
to  the  folly  that  had  brought  them  into  their  difficulties. 

"  Well,  wot  be  we  goin'  to  do  ?" 

It  was  so  seldom  that  Phcebe  Ellen  made  any  appeal 
except  to  the  obedience  of  those  around  her  that  Anny 
was  immediately  touched.  She  was  unaccustomed  to  the 
sight  of  that  somewhat  vixenish  face  with  the  lips  tremu 
lous  and  a  flaccid  droop  about  the  chin.  Anny's  sense  of 


21 


humor  was  strong — the  whole  situation  had  been  a  mixt 
ure  of  tragedy  and  comedy  to  her — but  her  sympathies 
were  stronger. 

"Never  mind/'  she  said,  soothingly.     "Never  mind." 

"He  don't  mean  to  come  back,"  Phoebe  Ellen  announced, 
in  a  hollow  tone. 

"We'll  find  a  way  out/'  said  Anny,  cheerfully. 

"  We  can't  go  on  a-settiii'  'ere  ferever."  Phoebe  Ellen's 
pronoun  was  oblivious  of  Anny's  standing  posture,  as  was 
her  following  remark.  "  This  'ere  plankin's  gittin'  tired 
a'ready.  I'd  like  to  be  moviii'  on." 

"So  'ud  I,"  assented  Anny. 

f '  But  we  can't  start  out  alone — " 

"I  reckon  we  could  find  the  way." 

"  Oh,  we  could  find  the  way  fast  'nough — I  ain't  afeerd 
o'  that.  I  was  thinkin'  o'  wot  we'd  do  arterwards." 

"Arterwards?" 

"Arter  we  got  to  the  ranch.  A  ranch  out  'ere  ain't 
like  wot  'tis  in  Nebrasky.  We  got  to  have  some  un 
aroun'  't's  used  to  things." 

"We  couldii't  'tend  to  it  like  we  orter,  all  to  wunst," 
assented  Anny,  in  her  slow,  even  drawl. 

"  Oh,  I  know  it !"  groaned  Phoebe  -Ellen,  dropping  her 
hands  between  her  knees.  "  They  ain't  'nother  soul  'bout 
that  ranch  't  kin  run  it — Dan's  letters  used  to  say  so  ;  'n' 
if  we  go  to  run  it  ourselves,  we'll  run  it  into  the  groun'. 
He's  got  to  go  back  till  I  kin  git  the  hang  o'  things.  We 
can't  git  'long  'thout  'im." 

"No,"  acquiesced  the  even  voice. 

"'N'  arter  I  larn  the  ins  V  outs  I'll  fire  'im  s'  quick 
it  '11  make  his  head  swim  !  I'll  set  the  dorgs  onto  'im — 
I'll  pitch  'im  into  the  river  !  But  how  to  git  'im  back  ? 
He  don't  need  to  work,  'cause  he's  got  a  ranch  somers  o' 
his  own.  To  think  o'  him  over  there  this  minute,  fillin' 
his  skin  with  whiskey,  while  we—  But  the  herders  is  all 
used  to  mindin'  'im — wot  if  they  was  to  leave  in  a  wad  if 


22 

we  was  to  go  back  'thout  Mm  ?  Lots  o'  cowboys  won't 
mind  a  woomarn — Dan  used  to  say  so.  'N'  I  can't  look 
arter  the  cattle  V  errygation  Mi'  the  range  till  I  larn  the 
workin'  o'  things.  Wot  be  we  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"It's  plain  'notigh  to  me  wot  orter  be  done."  Anny's 
words  had  become  positive,  but  her  tone  was  as  mild  as 
ever. 

Phoebe  Ellen  was  in  a  melting  mood.  People  always 
are  when  they  extend  helpless  arms  to  be  lifted  out  of  their 
scrapes. 

"  I've  knowed  ye  to  have  idees,"  she  conceded,  almost 
with  tears. 

"  In  fact,  they  ain't  but  one  thing  to  be  done,"  contin 
ued  Anny. 

"Well,  let's  hear  it." 

The  pretty,  drawling  voice  articulated  with  a  distinct 
ness  which  might  have  belonged  to  a  more  incisive  utter 
ance. 

"  Go  over  to  the  s'loon  V  call  Mm  out  V  tell  Mm  ye're 
sorry." 

Phoebe  Ellen  stiffened  her  neck,  glared,  snorted,  drew 
down  her  mouth,  gave  her  head  a  sideward  fling,  and 
clamped  both  hands  around  her  knee. 

"  Well  !"  she  said,  in  a  fatal  tone.  "  If  that  don't  beat 
the  speckled  Jews  !" 

"  It  Mid  work,"  persisted  Anny,  gently. 

"'Work  !  Tell  Mm  I'm  sorry  !  Well,  if  that's  all  the 
idee  ye  got,  'nough's  been  said."  She  waited  a  moment 
for  Anny  to  expatiate  on  the  advantages  of  her  plan,  but 
as  no  argument  was  offered,  she  went  on  in  a  modified 
tone,  "  Tell  Mm  I'm  sorry  !  I  reckon  I  see  myself  !" 

"  Then  I  reckon  I  might 's  well  set  down,  too,  'n'  make 
myself  to  hum  ?"  inquired  Anny,  with  unruffled  serenity. 

"  I  reckon  ye  might,  if  that's  all  ye  got  to  offer ;  V  ye 
might  's  well  make  up  yer  mind  to  set  'ere  till  the  crack 
o'  doom,  too,  though  this  plankin'  's  orfle  hard.  Tell  Mm 


23 


I'm  sorry  !"  The  energy  of  the  repetition  suggested  a 
feebleness  of  resistance  which  Anny  was  not  slow  to  un 
derstand.  It  even  implied  a  familiarity  with  the  idea 
before  it  had  been  presented. 

"  Well,  ye  was  wrong,  now,  waVt  ye,  sis  ?"  the  younger 
sister  said,  persuasively,  laying  her  hand  on  Phoebe  Ellen's 
knee. 

"Wrong?  Never!"  cried  the  latter,  tightening  her 
mouth  and  drawing  away. 

"Well,  a  leetle  bit  quick,  then.  Ye'll  have  to  own  up 
ye  was  a  leetle  bit  quick." 

Phoebe  Ellen,  who  wanted  to  be  coaxed,  denied  the 
charge  in  a  fainter  voice. 

"  I  waVt  no  sech  thing — ye  know  I  waVt !" 

"  Ye  orter  V  give  'im  a  chance  to  speak  up  V  Vplain." 

' '  He  orter  V  took  the  chance  when  he  seen  how  mad  I 
was." 

"No;  ye  didn't  give  'im  no  show  't  all.  Ye  begun 
on  'im  afore  he  had  time  to  open  his  mouth.  That's 
where  ye  was  wrong.  Ye  acted  like  ye  was  reg'larly 
sp'ilin'  fer  a  fight,  V  he  seen  it  V  kep'  still.  Ye  was  on 
the  wrong  side  through  the  hull  bizness,  sis.  Ye  know  it 
yerself,  only  ye're  mad  V  won't  own  up." 

"He  hadn't  no  bizness  to  be  late,  nohow." 

"  How  d'  ye  know  that  ?  Ye  orter  V  ast  'im  V  made 
shore.  'N'  if  he  hadn't  no  'scuse,  'twa'n't  sech  a  turble 
sin,  arter  all.  Half  a  hour's  waitin'  didn't  hurt  us.  Ye've 
kep'  us  'ere  longer  'n  that  right  now  by  bein'  cranky  V 
drivin'  'im  oif .  Now  ye've  got  one  o'  two  things  to  do:  git 
into  the  waggin  'n'  start,  or  go  over  to  the  s'loon  V  tell 
'im  ye're  sorry." 

"'I  won't  never  do  that."    The  tone  was  very  feeble. 

"Then  wot's  the  use  o'  waitin'  'ere  ?  Why  not  jump  in 
V  be  off  ?" 

"Wot's  the  use  o'  startin'  'less  Tinker  goes  'long  o'  us  ? 
He  must  have  whiskey  'nough  in  'im  to  float  a  ship  by 


24 


this.  The  ranch  '11  go  to  everlastin'  pot  'thout  'im —  I 
know  'twill.  He's  jes'  the  one  to  boss  the  cowboys  V 
look  arter  the  crops  'n'  cattle — it's  's  plain  's  the  shoes  on 
yer  feet !" 

"Oh,  they  ain't  no  question  o'  his  bein'  jes'  the  man  we 
need !  But  if  we've  got  to  worry  'long  'thout  'im,  why 
not  climb  in  'n'  lick  up  ?  This  ain't  no  good." 

"  'D  ye  see  the  way  he  lifted  in  that  trunk  ?" 

Anny  nodded. 

"Tell  'im  I'm  sorry?  I'll  see  myself  farther  fust! 
'D  ye  reckon  he  looked  so  orfle  mad  ?" 

"No  ;  only  like  he  wouldn't  be  walked  over." 

"'D  I  walk  over 'im  ?" 

Anny  smiled. 

"No,  but  ye  tried." 

The  sarcasm  was  lost  on  Phoebe  Ellen.  She  was  too  op 
pressed  by  her  predicament  to  think  of  anything  but  a 
possible  way  out  of  it.  Suddenly  she  was  struck  with  a 
bright  idea. 

"Lookee  'ere,  sis,"  she  cried,  "you  go  V  tell  'im  ye're 
sorry  !" 

"Me  ?  He  don't  know  me  from  Adam.  He  never  even 
looked  at  me  wunst." 

"I  reckon  I  did  take  up  most  o'  his  'tention,"  reflected 
Phoebe  Ellen,  not  without  pride.  "But  ye  kin  tell  'im 
who  ye  be.  Tell  'im  ye're  my  sister — that  '11  fetch  'im. 
He'll  'member  me !" 

"But  I  ain't  done  no  thin'  to  be  sorry  fer,"  objected 
Anny. 

"Wot's  the  differ  ?  If  he  wants  some  un  to  say  they're 
sorry,  ye  kin  do  it  a  heap  purtier  'n  wot  I  kin.  Come, 
now.  Trot  along  !" 

"Why,  I'd  jes'  soon,  's  fur  's  the  doin'  o'  it  goes,"  said 
Anny,  still  smiling.  "  But  wot's  the  use  o'  wastin'  time 
like  that?  Ye're  the  one  't  done  the  wrong,  'n'  ye're  the 
one  't  '11  have  to  make  it  right." 


25 


«I  don't  see  the  differ.     It's  all  in  the  fambly." 

"'Tain't  a  fambly  affair,  nohow.  He'll  see  the  differ, 
'n'  ye  would  yerself  in  his  place." 

Phoebe  Ellen  sighed. 

"  Ye're  shore  'twouldn't  go  ?" 

"Shore." 

"0'  course  I  won't  'pollygize  to  'im,"  Phoebe  Ellen 
declared.  "  I  can't.  I  never  done  sech  a  thing  in  my 
life." 

"Ye  might  'a'  begun  airlier,  that's  so/'  remarked  Anny, 
always  with  her  gentle  smile.  "  But  it's  never  too  late  to 
mend,,  ye  know." 

At  this  point  another  brilliant  idea  struck  Phoebe 
Ellen. 

"  Lookee  ''ere,  I've  got  jes'  the  thing  !"  she  cried. 

"Well,  wot  now?" 

"  Go  over  V  tell  'im  I'm  sorry  !  Tell  'im  I  said  I  acted 
mean,  V  I'm  sorry  fer  it !"  Phoebe  Ellen  was  quite  jubi 
lant  over  her  ingenuity.  "See  how  quick  he'll  come 
down  !" 

But  Anny  understood  this  only  as  another  evasion  of 
the  main  issue.  She  shook  her  head. 

"  'Twon't  do,  sis,  'twon't  do,"  she  declared. 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"'Cause  'twon't  sat'sfy  ''im." 

"He's  a  queer  un  if  that  won't  sat'sfy  'im  !  How  d'  ye 
know  'twon't  ?" 

"I  seen  it  in  'is  face." 

Phoebe  Ellen  sniffed. 

"Ye  must  V  been  lookin'  at  'im  powerful  hard  to  see 
the  like  o'  that  in  his  face !" 

"Ye  seen  it  there  yerself,  if  ye'll  only  stop  to  think. 
He  won't  take  no  beatin'  round  the  bush  —  ye've  got  to 
git  right  down  to  bizness  with  Mm.  Wot'ud  he  do  with 
a  'pollygy  from  me,  anyhow  ?" 

"'Pollygy !"  repeated   Phoebe    Ellen,  with   a    scornful 


26 

groan.  "  I'll  never  do  it  's  long  's  I  have  a  mouth  to 
screech  with  or  nails  to  claw — never!  How  kin  I?  I 
don't  know  how  !  Ye  don't  reckon  he's  gone  V  sneaked 
out  o'  the  back  door  over  there  jes'  to  git  away  from  me, 
do  ye  ?  How  kin  I  'pollygize  if  he's  gone  afore  I  had  the 
chance?  I  b'lieve  the  man's  tuck  a  hatred  o'  me  from 
the  start,  V  made  up  'is  mind  afore  he  seen  me  't  he'd 
leave !" 

"No — no,"  soothed  Anny,  who  saw  her  sister  yielding. 

"I  can't  see  'im  from  'ere." 

"He's  somers  inside.     Go  over  V  see." 

"But  if  he  shouldn't  be  there  ?" 

"  Then  ye  kin  come  back  'n'  no  harm  done." 

"  'N'  if  he  was  to  turn  up  'is  nose  at  me  ?" 

"He  won't— he  won't  !" 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  Phoebe  Ellen's  face 
grew  solemn. 

"If  he  was  to  turn  up  his  nose  at  me,  I'd  never  fer- 
give  ye  fer  it,  sis — I  never  could  !" 

Anny  stifled  a  furtive  smile,  but  said  nothing. 

"I  d'know  wot  makes  me  hate  to  do  it  so — it's  jest  a 
matter  o'  bizness,  arter  all." 

"Jest  a  matter  o'  bizness,  that's  all,"  repeated  Anny. 

"'N'  I'm  used  to  bizness — I've  allus  done  it  fer  you 
'n'  me  both.  I'm  shore  I  don't  keer  wot  he  thinks  o' 


me." 


"'Course  not !'; 

"I  ain't  no  call  to  want  to  show  off  afore  'im,  'n'  I 
wouldn't  do  it  if  I  had.  But  oh,  sis,  wot  if  he  should 
turn  up  'is  nose  ?" 

"I'll  go  bail  he  won't!" 

"'N'  wot  if  he  shouldn't  excep'  my  pollygy  ?  Sis,  I 
should  die  !" 

The  position  of  the  sisters  had  been  momentarily  re 
versed.  Phoebe  Ellen's  strength  had  become  weakness, 
and  Anny's  weakness  strength. 


"  He'll  except  it,"  declared  the  latter. 

"If  he  don't,  d'  ye  know  wot  Fm  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"  No.     Wot  ?" 

"  I'm  a-going  to  lay  every  bit  o'  the  blame  on  you!" 

Army  had  expected  some  dreadful  threat,  but  at  this 
anticlimax  she  laughed  out. 

"Well,"  she  assented,  "I  kin  stan'  that." 

((>W  if  he  does  except—" 

"Then  ye  kin  take  all  the  credit  to  yerself."  Anny's 
pretty  smile  was  visible  again. 

Phoebe  Ellen  was  too  far  gone  by  this  time  to  resent 
anything  short  of  downright  abuse. 

"Ye'll  go  over  with  me,  won't  ye,  sis  ?"  she  pleaded. 
"  I  kin  never  face  that  man  alone  !" 

"No.     Ye  kin  talk  easier  if  I  ain't  there." 

Phoebe  Ellen  realized  the  truth  of  this,  and  urged  the 
point  no  further.  She  rose  slowly. 

"I  don't  see  's  they's  any  use  o'  kickin'  agin  wot's 
boun'  to  be,"  was  her  comment,  as  she  gained  her  feet. 
"When  the  men  gits  on  their  high  hosses,  I  don't  see 
who's  left  in  the  world  to  take  'em  down  but  the  wimmin. 
It's  only  a  matter  o'  bizness,  anyway.  Wot  do  I  keer  wot 
he  thinks  o'  me  ?" 

And  she  began  to  edge  her  way  towards  the  saloon. 

"  0'  course  I  won't 'pollygize,"  was  her  final  declaration, 
flung  over  her  shoulder  for  Anny  to  catch  as  best  she 
might.  "  I'll  jes'  tell  'im  I'm  sorry  I  acted  mean  V  won't 
do  it  agin.  Further  'n  that  I  jes'  won't  go — so  there  ! 
'N'  if  that  don't  suit  'im— " 

The  succeeding  words  were  lost  as  she  dragged  her 
self  saloonward.  But  she  was  still  talking  to  herself. 
"Who'd  'a'  ever  pictered  me  in  sech  a  fix?"  she  muttered. 
"  Gittin'  down  on  my  marrer-bones  'n'  crawlin'  afore  a 
man  !  Well,  they  ain't  no  sense  in  half  doin'  it.  If  I  kin 
der  stan'  aroun'  on  the  edges  o'  my  dignity  he'll  never  come 
back.  'N'  he's  got  to  come  back — I  want  'im.  No,  I  got 


to  swoller  the  hull  pill— it  '11  only  taste  bitterer  to  bite  it 
in  two.  Wot  a  fool  I  was  to  tackle  'im  at  fnst!  I  might 
V  knowed  by  the  looks  o'  'im  I  couldn't  use  'im  fer  a  side 
walk.  If  I  get  out  o'  this  scrape,  I'll  never  try  to  come 
it  over  'im  agin  !" 

Near  the  door  of  the  saloon  she  straightened  herself. 

if  Now  fer  it/'  she  said  to  herself.     "  Hull  hog  or  none!" 

Another  step  brought  her  to  the  threshold.  She  leaned 
over  and  peered  inside. 

It  was  dark  in  there — so  dark  that  coming  in  from  the 
glare  of  the  sun  she  could  at  first  see  nothing  but  shadows 
within  shadows.  A  noise  directed  her  attention  towards 
the  back  of  the  room.  A  man  opened  the  rear  door, 
letting  in  a  momentary  flood  of  light ;  it  illuminated  a 
scared  masculine  face  with  a  billy-goat  beard,  turned 
wildly  in  her  direction  before  the  door  closed,  and  hid  it 
from  view.  "  That  mus'  be  Pete  Hawkins,"  thought 
Phosbe  Ellen,  to  whom  his  existence  outside  Pinky's  de 
scription  suggested  analogies.  "Afeer'd  o'  a  woomarn ! 
If  Sam  Tinker  was  like  that  I  could  soon  bring  'im. 
aroun' !" 

Her  glance  wandered  peeringly  around  the  little  room. 
It  was  shabby,  fly-blown,  unwholesomely  odorous.  There 
was  an  irregular  wedge  of  cheese  under  a  wire-screen  box, 
around  which  defunct  flies  lay  thick  as  over-ripe  black 
berries  on  the  grass  in  August.  Overalls  and  tin  pails 
were  strung  together  along  a  rope  above  the  deal  counter  ; 
there  were  canned  goods,  sugar-barrels,  cracker  -  boxes, 
sombreros,  miners'  boots,  and  whiskey-kegs,  all  mingled  to 
gether  as  in  the  nightmare  of  an  orderly  shopkeeper. 
On  the  left  was  a  high  table  which  served  as  bar.  Over 
this  the  only  occupant  of  the  place  was  leaning,  or,  rather, 
sprawling,  his  chest  touching  it,  both  forearms  extended 
along  it,  his  fingers  clasped.  It  was  Sam  Tinker,  and  his 
face  was  towards  her.  Evidently  he  had  concluded  that 
her  coming  was  an  event  not  worthy  of  the  attention  of 


29 

his  whole  body,  for  he  did  not  move  or  recognize  her 
in  any  way  except  with  his  eyes. 

"  Come  out  a  minute,  will  ye  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone 
intended  to  be  only  conciliatory,  but  which  was  in  fact 
appealing.  His  face  was  utterly  impassive  as  he  gazed 
back  at  her,  and  she  could  not  imagine  what  expression 
it  would  finally  assume.  Some  sort  of  insensibility,  of 
course  ;  the  big  heavy  features  looked  to  her  excited  im 
agination  as  if  covered  with  rhinoceros  hide.  Or  would 
he  frown  ?  Or  would  he  laugh  ?  Or  would  he  turn  away 
without  answering  her  ?  Or  would  he  stare  back  at  her 
forever  with  that  look  of  thick-skinned  comfort  ?  Lest 
any  one  of  these  dreadful  things  should  happen  she  sup 
plemented  her  request  by  a  "Please,"  which  was  tremu 
lous  in  spite  of  her. 

The  giant  considered  during  a  moment  Avhich  seemed 
ages.  Then  he  heaved  his  shoulders  up  from  the  bar,  the 
right  one  first,  adjusted  his  hat  with  leisurely  self-posses 
sion,  hitched  up  his  overalls,  thrust  his  thumbs  into  his 
belt,  and  got  under  motion. 

When  he  reached  her  side  on  the  door-step  he  still  said 
nothing,  but  with  the  sunlight  upon  him  he  looked  more 
sentient  and  impressive. 

"  Ye  wanted  some  more  talk  ?"  he  finally  inquired. 

(( I — I  wanted  to — to — yes,  they  was  suthin'  I  wanted  to 
— in  fact  they  was  suthin'  on  my  mind,"  she  stammered, 
twisting  her  hand  into  the  folds  of  her  gown  and  kicking 
at  a  tuft  of  yucca  which  happened  to  be  growing  near. 
There  was  an  embarrassed  meekness  in  her  manner  which 
he  rightly  judged  was  new  to  her. 

"Well,  here  I  be,"  he  said,  smiling  slightly  at  some 
thought  of  his  own. 

The  smile  reassured  her,  though  she  did  not  under 
stand  it. 

"  I  wanted  to  own  up  't  I  was  mean  to  ye."  Her  voice 
was  scarcely  audible,  but  it  showed  that  she  was  suffering 


30 


to  the  quick  of  her  sensibilities.  "  Fve  had  time  to  think 
it  over,  V  I  know  I  didn't  use  ye  right,  '11'  I'm  sorry  fer 
it,  'n'  I'll  take  keer  it  don't  happen  agin." 

The  words  were  masculine  in  their  simple  directness, 
but  the  tone  gave  them  a  distinct  feminine  effect. 

The  smile  faded  out  of  the  giant's  face  and  he  regarded 
her  gravely,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  her  sincerity.  Then  he 
said,  just  a  hint  of  a  smile  returning  to  the  corners  of  his 
mustache  : 

"  Oh,  ye  want  me  to  go  back  ?" 

"  I  do  I"  breathed  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Well,  see  'ere,  now,"  he  said,  settling  himself  with 
ponderous  comfort  upon  one  leg.  "  I'd  jes'  's  soon  go  back. 
Dan  wanted  me  to  stay  with  ye  a  year,  V  I  promised  'im 
I  would,  V  we  was  pards.  But  I  want  to  tell  ye  one 
thing." 

Phoebe  Ellen's  eyes  sharpened  upon  his,  eager  for  con 
cessions. 

"  I'm  willin'  to  give  a  'count  o'  myself  's  long  's  I'm  in 
yer  pay — only  I  want  the  chance.  I've  got  a  mouth  on 
me 't  kin  talk  if  ye'll  give  it  time,  V  it  kin  tell  the  truth, 
too,  so  't  ye  kin  depend  on  it.  I've  got  to  be  treated  white 
—see  ?" 

"  I'll  treat  ye  white,"  Phoebe  Ellen  promised,  humbly. 

"Come  on,  then." 

And  he  swung  along  ahead  of  her  towards  the  station. 

"The  gray  cast  his  shoe  'bout  half-way  over,"  he  ex 
plained  to  her,  as  she  trudged  along  in  his  shadow.  "It 
took  time  to  fix  it." 

"I  orter  'a'  ast  wot  kep'  ye,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  still 
chewing  her  humble  pie. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PINKY  and  Anny  had  drawn  close  together  to  watch 
the  result  of  Phoebe  Ellen's  manoeuvring. 

"  She's  got  'im!"  cried  the  depot-man,  as  the  conference 
in  front  of  the  saloon  broke  up.  "  She  must  V  come  down 
wonderful  to  git  around  'im  so  soon.  Why,,  he's  grinnin'  I" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  done  it  funny,"  was  Anny's 
way  of  accounting  for  that  phenomenon. 

Phoebe  Ellen  came  bobbing  along  in  Sam's  wake,  and 
looking  as  if  she  expected  to  be  greeted  by  shrieks  of  deri 
sion;  but  there  was  nothing  to  hurt  her  in  the  way  she 
was  met  by  Pinky  and  Anny.  On  the  platform  the  four 
of  them  drifted  into  one  of  those  provisional  groups  which 
a  disrupted  social  element  forms  as  by  a  newly  developed 
centripetal  force,  and  which  always  have  an  air  of  poten 
tial  rearrangement  into  more  natural  and  comfortable  re 
lations.  It  is  the  attempt  of  society  to  make  believe  that 
nothing  has  happened  contrary  to  the  gregarious  instincts 
which  hold  it  together. 

By  no  effort  of  her  own  Phoebe  Ellen  found  herself  in 
Pinky's  neighborhood.  She  looked  pale,  as  if  her  descent 
into  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  had  left  her  exhausted. 
She  talked  a  little,  though  with  an  effort.  Pinky  devoted 
himself  to  her.  She  had  torn  her  dress  near  the  bottom,, 
and  graciously  accepted  his  aid  in  pinning  it  up.  She 
made  some  complimentary  remarks  about  the  weather, 
and  Pinky  told  her  this  was  only  a  sample  of  what  Colo 
rado  could  do  ;  she  would  get  the  whole  piece  as  time 
went  on.  Pinky  hardly  knew  how  he  liked  her  best — de 
feated  and  deprecating,  or  confident  and  aggressive. 


Sam  busied  himself  about  the  horses,  after  the  seem 
ingly  purposeless  manner  of  drivers  the  world  over  who 
understand  their  business.  He  adjusted  a  buckle  here, 
a  strap  there,  pulled  the  mustang's  mane  into  shape,  and 
examined  the  foot  of  the  gray  from  which  the  shoe  had 
been  cast  on  the  way  over. 

By  the  same  subtle  law  which  had  brought  Pinky  and 
Phoebe  Ellen  together  on  the  platform,  Anny  strayed 
around  in  Sam's  direction.  He  was  bending  over  the 
foot  of  the  gray  at  the  moment,  and  when  he  rose  he 
faced  her  unexpectedly.  He  had  not  noticed  her  before, 
and  the  pleasure  of  his  surprise  made  a  look  of  slow 
dawn  in  his  features.  She  was  very  pretty  in  her  brown 
sun-hat  trimmed  with  red-clover  blossoms,  and  with  her 
blond  hair  visible  in  fluffy  curls  around  her  forehead. 
She  was  greatly  like  her  sister,  but  her  cheeks  had  more 
color,  her  body  more  curves,  her  eyes  more  light.  She 
looked  warmer,  more  approachable.  He  paused,  gazing 
at  the  womanly  apparition  with  frank  appreciation. 

They  stood  thus  for  a  full  moment,  she  flushed  but  not 
deeply  embarrassed,  he  boldly  but  respectfully  admiring. 
She  had  approached  him  with  .the  intention  of  saying 
something  in  condonement  of  her  sister's  temper,  but  his 
frank  enjoyment  of  the  sight  of  her  kept  her  silent.  She 
was  not  sure  that  she  was  altogether  pleased  with  his 
direct,  satisfied  gaze  ;  but  certainly  she  was  not  offended. 
She  half  wished  she  had  not  tried  to  say  anything  by  way 
of  apology ;  what  if  he  should  discover  in  her  blushes  the 
fact  that  she  thought  him  handsome  ?  Finally  he  said, 
patting  the  gray  absently  with  his  big,  steady  hand : 

t(  Ye  mus'  be  'er  sister,  I  reckon  ?" 

The  pronoun  required  no  antecedent,  and  Anny  nodded. 

"  Ye  look  like  'er,"  resumed  Sam,  after  another  leisure 
ly  survey  of  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"Everybody  says  so,"  acknowledged  Anny.  She  was 
afraid  her  looks  might  be  disagreeable  after  his  con- 


33 

flict  with  Phoebe  Ellen.  But  his  next  words  reassured 
her. 

"Everybody's  right.  Ye  look  like  'er — with  improve 
ments."  He  began  his  speech  gravely,  but  finished  it  with 
a  twinkle. 

Anny  smiled,  still  not  quite  easily. 

"  Ye'll  like  'er  better  when  ye  know  'er,"  she  said. 
"  Her  bark  's  wuss  'n  her  bite." 

Sam  shifted  his  bulk  from  the  left  leg  to  the  right,  and 
propped  his  elbow  against  the  neck  of  the  gray. 

"  Was  it  a  bark  or  a  bite  I  got  ?"  he  inquired.  His 
smile  started  in  his  eyes  and  ended  in  the  corners  of  his 
mustache. 

"A  little  o'  both,  I  reckon.  Anyway,  Fm  glad  she 
brought  ye  back  with  'er." 

"So  be  I — now"  His  eyes  put  a  large  meaning  into 
his  speech. 

She  went  on  somewhat  hurriedly ; 

"I  know  'twa'ii't  fer  her  sake — nor  mine — 't  ye  come 
back.  Dan  wanted  ye  to  look  arter  us — he  writ  us  afore 
he  died  how  he'd  got  ye  to  promise  to  have  an  eye  on  us 
fer  a  year.  'N'  I  know  ye  don't  have  to  work  out — he 
told  us  'bout  that,  too.  I  wanted  to  tell  ye  I  knowed 
how  things  was,  so  it  wouldn't  look  like  I  was  ongrate- 
ful." 

Her  gravity  was  reflected  in  his  face  and  speech  as  he 
answered : 

"  Thankee.  I'll  do  wot  I  kin.  I  keerd  fer  Dan.  I 
was  with  'im  when  he  died." 

He  had  removed  his  elbow  from  the  neck  of  the  gray 
and  was  again  patting  him  absently. 

' '  He  was  buried  near  the  house,  wa'n't  he  ?"  Anny 
finally  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Jest  a  little  above,  under  the  pines." 

"  Pore  Dan—pore  Dan  !" 

"  He  was  's  straight  a  man  's  ever  put  spur  to  heel," 


34 

said  Sam,  his  tone  softening  as  if  not  to  make  a  discord 
with  the  grief  in  hers. 

"Some  day  ye  mus'  tell  me  all  'bout  it."  The  tremor 
in  her  voice  showed  that  the  tears  were  not  far  behind. 
Sam  was  moved,  too,  not  only  by  the  memory  of  his  dead 
friend,  but  by  a  sense  of  having  come  unexpectedly  into 
a  heritage  of  large  and  precious  acquaintance  with  that 
friend's  sister. 

"  Ye  mustn't  mind  sis's  bossy  ways,"  Anny  went  on, 
drying  her  eyes  furtively  on  her  handkerchief,  and  chang 
ing  a  subject  which  was  rapidly  becoming  too  much  for 
both  of  them.  "She's  used  to  doin'  'bout  as  she  likes,  '11' 
don't  know  jes'  where  to  draw  the  line." 

"I  sha'n't  mind  now,"  Sam  assured  her. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  suddenly  as  she  tucked  her  hand 
kerchief  into  her  belt. 

"  Oh,  she'll  never  tackle  you  agin,"  she  said,  with  a 
soft  little  laugh. 

By  this  time  Phoebe  Ellen  had  crawled  into  the  back 
seat  of  the  buckboard,  where  she  was  sitting  with  a  chast 
ened  look.  Pinky  was  still  in  attendance. 

"  What  d'  ye  reckon  they're  talkin'  'bout  ?"  she  asked, 
in  a  low  tone,  jerking  her  head  in  the  direction  of  Anny 
and  Sam. 

"Dunno." 

"Mebbe  it's  me."     Phoebe  Ellen  sniffed. 

"I  can't  hear,"  Pinky  declared. 

"Mebbe  he's  tellin'  'er  all  'bout  wot  I  said  over  to  the 
s'loon,  V  they're  laffin'  over  it  together." 

"  That  ain't  like  Sam.    He  wouldn't  do  sech  a  thing." 

"It  ain't  like  sis,  either,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "Looks  like  they're  powerful  int'rested  in 
each  other,  though,  don't  it  ?" 

"  Well,  why  not  ?     Sam's  a  likely  feller." 

Phoebe  Ellen  snorted. 

"'S  if  'twas  a  question  o'  his  bein'  a  likely  feller  !     I 


85 


wonder  if  he's  goin'  to  stan'  there  all  day  gossipin'  with 
'er  ?  It's  time  we  was  on  the  way  to  the  ranch  if  we  want 
to  git  there  afore  midnight." 

"  Mebbe  he's  gittin'  stuck  on  'er  !"  cackled  Pinky. 

"  Stuck  on  'er  !"  Phoebe  Ellen's  voice  sounded  so  high 
and  hard  that  Pinky  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  asked,  innocently. 

But  catching  his  glance,  she  began  to  laugh.  She 
laughed  quite  boisterously,  but,  though  Pinky  joined  her, 
he  failed  entirely  to  see  the  point  of  the  joke. 

"  Shall  I  see  wot  they're  talkin'  'bout  ?"  he  volun 
teered,  when  she  had  sobered  down  a  little. 

Phoebe  Ellen  stopped  laughing  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
begun. 

"  'S  if  it  made  any  differ  to  me  what  they're  talkin' 
'bout !"  she  said,  flinging  her  head  back  haughtily. 

Then  she  was  unaccountably  silent.  Pinky  wondered 
what  there  was  in  his  offer  to  anger  her  —  she  had  first 
showed  an  interest  in  the  conversation  of  Anny  and  Sam, 
and  he  had  intended  only  to  please  her.  "  Wimmin  is 
queer,"  was  the  axiom  by  which  he  settled  the  question. 
"  They're  nice,  though,"  he  supplemented,  with  his  eyes 
upon  Phoebe  Ellen. 

In  fact,  she  was  thoroughly  impatient  to  be  gone  —  it 
filled  her  with  an  unaccountable  rage  to  see  how  absorbed 
Sam  and  Anny  had  become  in  each  other — but  she  would 
have  been  torn  by  pincers  before  asking  a  favor  of  that 
cowboy  after  the  way  he  had  treated  her.  If  he  chose  to 
wait  till  doomsday  before  starting  for  the  ranch,  he  might, 
for  all  of  her.  He  had  mastered  her  once,  and  she  had 
no  intention  of  giving  him  another  opportunity. 

She  kept  up  a  desultory  conversation  with  Pinky  —  if 
that  cowboy  could  get  so  absorbed  in  talking  to  Anny,  she 
would  show  him  that  Pinky  knew  how  to  admire,  too ! — 
but  it  was  an  effort.  She  realized  with  a  suppressed  fury 
that  Sam  had  the  advantage  of  her  throughout,  for  his 


36 

eyes  never  wandered  in  her  direction,  though  she  often 
looked  to  see.  At  last,  however,  he  came  around  to  the 
side  of  the  wagon  and  assisted  Anny  in. 

"  He  needn't  be  so  mighty  keerf  nl  o'  'er,"  whispered 
Phoebe  Ellen  to  Pinky.  "She  ain't  eggs.  She  wouldn't 
bust  if  she  was  to  slip  V  take  a  tumble." 

Then  she  became  vociferous  in  her  invitations  for  Pinky 
to  come  over  and  visit  her.  One  would  have  thought  that 
she  had  been  hungering  and  thirsting  during  a  long  term 
of  years  for  his  society,  and  that,  having  found  it,  she 
never  could  have  enough  of  it.  She  was  so  glad  she  had 
met  him ;  she  couldn't  think  how  she  would  have  put  in 
the  long  period  of  waiting  at  the  depot  if  he  hadn't  been 
there  to  talk  to.  And  couldn't  he  manage  to  come  over 
next  Sunday  ?  Couldn't  he  manage  to  come  over  every 
Sunday  ?  She  would  be  more  at  leisure  then  than  on 
other  days,  and  they  could  have  such  fun  !  But  he  must 
be  sure  to  come,  Sunday  or  any  day  ;  she  wanted  to  know 
him  better,  he  was  one  of  her  kind.  And — 

"Be  ye  ready?"  inquired  Sam  Tinker,  twitching  the 
lines  with  one  large,  impassive  hand.  For  all  she  could 
see,  he  had  heard  never  a  word  of  her  gush  over  Pinky; 
or  if  he  had,  he  showed  no  resentment. 

"  Oh,  ready — yes,"  replied  Phoebe  Ellen,  resolved  to  try 
once  more.  Then  turning  to  Pinky,  "  Wa'n't  it  lucky  we 
had  sech  a  chance  to  git  'quainted  ?  I  swan,  'pears  like 
I'm  tickled  mos'  to  death  with  bein'  belated,  bein'  that's 
how  we  got  to  know  each  other.  Let's  shake  ban's  fer 
good-luck  to  a  better  knowin'  o'  wot  nice  folks  we  be.  I 
reckon  I'll  have  to  go  to  house-cleanin'  'bout  's  soon  's  I 
git  to  the  ranch,  but  ye'll  allus  be  welcome.  Come  often, 
V  bring  yer  knittin'  !" 

"  Got  mos'  through  ?"  inquired  Tinker,  glancing  back 
at  her  with  a  slow,  enigmatic  smile.  . 

The  wagon  drove  off  amid  Phoebe  Ellen's  renewed  invi 
tations  and  Pinky's  shrill  acceptances.  "Remember!" 


37 


she  shouted.  "Sundays  anyway,  V  other  days  when  ye 
kin !"  When  the  widening  distance  swallowed  up  her 
shrieks  and  his  quavers,  she  contented  herself  with  wav 
ing  her  handkerchief,  rising  high  in  her  seat  that  Sam 
might  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  her  new-born  friendship, 
even  though  his  face  was  turned  the  other  way. 

"  Ain't  he  nice  ?"  she  inquired  of  Anny  in  a  loud  voice, 
when  she  at  last  seated  herself  for  good.  "  I  d'  know 
when  Fve  been  so  took  with  a  man  's  wot  I  be  with  him. 
'W  I  allus  did  like  the  name  o7  Dick  !  It's  s'  much  nicer 
'n  yer  old  Bible  names  \" 

At  that  a  slow  grin  dawned  on  Sam  Tinker's  face — she 
could  see  it  by  leaning  to  the  right  and  peering  around 
his  shoulder.  The  grin  widened,  and  Phoebe  Ellen  fell  to 
wondering  if  she  had  made  a  fool  of  herself  a  second  time 
that  day.  Following  out  this  thought,  she  became  silent 
and  preoccupied,  and  at  last  angry.  One  can  manage  to 
play  out  his  part  after  a  fashion,  regardless  of  the  disap 
proval  of  the  audience  ;  but  when  one's  faith  in  himself 
begins  to  fail,  it  is  time  to  ring  down  the  curtain  and  put 
out  the  lights. 

Anny  and  Sam,  however,  found  plenty  to  talk  about. 
She  had  a  hundred  questions  to  ask  about  the  country 
through  which  they  passed,  learned  to  distinguish  the 
buffalo-grass  on  which  the  herds  pastured,  was  properly 
surprised  at  the  soapy  qualities  of  the  yucca  root,  and  be 
came  an  expert  in  differentiating  mountain  sage  from 
sage-brush.  She  had  a  pretty,  interested  way  of  ask 
ing  questions  which  Sarn  thought  charming ;  and  his 
well-considered  answers  impressed  her  as  opinions  of 
weight  and  importance.  By -and -by  their  conversation 
wandered  back  to  the  death  of  her  brother  Dan,  and  Sam 
described  with  grave  simplicity  the  burial  just  above  the 
ranch  on  the  mountain-side.  All  the  cowboys  and  cow 
men  of  the  region — there  is  a  vast  difference  between  what 
is  represented  by  the  terms — had  been  present,  and  old 


man  Halstead  had  read  the  burial  service.  Army's  face 
grew  very  sorrowful  as  she  listened  ;  it  seemed  pitiful 
that  he  should  die  at  such  a  distance  from  all  his  kin ; 
she  would  have  come  at  once  had  she  only  known  ;  but 
Dan  had  a  horror  of  what  he  considered  being  a  burden — 
as  if  she  would  not  have  been  easier  in  her  mind  to  her 
dying  day  had  she  been  at  his  side  through  it  all  and  min 
istered  to  him.  She  wanted  to  know  if  grass  and  flowers 
grew  up  there  where  he  was  buried.  She  had  brought  a 
little  cinnamon  rose-bush  on  purpose  to  plant  there,  and 
a  white  lily  bulb,  and  some  seeds  ;  and  when  she  was  told 
that  they  had  heaped  a  great  pile  of  stones  above  the  spot 
to  keep  the  coyotes  from  digging,  she  sat  for  several  min 
utes  crying  softly  behind  her  handkerchief ;  and  Sam 
looked  back  at  her  with  a  pitying  comprehension  of  her 
grief,  saying  simply : 

"I  keered  fer  Dan,  too." 

And  in  that  community  of  loss  both  recognized  the 
growth  of  a  friendship  which,  though  sudden,  was  likely 
to  last. 

For  a  little  way  beyond  the  spur  of  the  foot-hills  from 
which  they  had  seen  Sam  Tinker  emerge  the  road  wound 
up  a  desolate  canon,  waterless  and  split  into  transverse 
gulches,  among  whose  rocks  even  the  pines  refused  to 
grow.  There  were  queer  cracks  and  chasms  in  this  riven 
world — tumble- down  mountains  with  their  ruins  all  about 
their  bases,  displaying  caverns  whose  depths  only  the 
eagles  had  explored,  and  thrusting  forward  high  flat  sur 
faces  which  had  been  scooped  by  the  storms  into  hollows 
and  troughs.  Finally  the  road  came  out  upon  a  summit 
which  hardly  seemed  a  summit  at  all,  for  there  were  lof 
tier  elevations  all  around,  shutting  out  the  distances  and 
narrowing  the  horizon  to  a  series  of  peaks  and  plateaus 
which  looked  close  enough  to  be  touched.  From  that 
point  the  highway  began  to  descend  and  to  become  less 
desolate.  It  passed  into  a  stretch  of  mountain  woodland, 


39 


where  mingled  pines  and  aspens  made  a  cool  green  light 
along  the  ground,  and  the  rocks,  also  clothed  with  pines, 
were  brilliantly  red  and  yellow  higher  up.  Huge  bowl 
ders  had  rolled  from  the  cliffs,  and  here  and  there  formed 
what  seemed  impassable  barriers  ;  but  by  a  sudden  dodge 
the  road  got  past  and  went  on  winding  downward  among 
the  trees.  A  tiny  rill  of  water  appeared  beside  the  way. 
It  grew  to  a  noisy  stream,  edged  by  willows  and  alders 
and  bordered  by  small  tracts  of  hardy  grass  where  the 
canon  widened  and  gave  meadow-room.  Now  and  then 
the  stream  plunged  down  a  precipice  with  an  audible 
thrill  which  made  one's  nerves  tingle  ;  but  at  a  distance 
the  sound  became  a  dreamy  monotone,,  and  the  wind  blow 
ing  it  down  the  canon  seemed  laden  with  slumber,  as  if  it 
had  traversed  acres  of  Indian  poppy -fields.  The  cliffs 
became  strangely  like  castle  walls  with  loop-holes  and 
crenulated  towers  ;  one  beheld  a  natural  bridge  spanning 
an  arch  of  blue  sky.  There  were  queer  likenesses  of  faces 
in  the  profiles  of  the  crags ;  monsters,  too — a  lion's  head, 
the  outline  of  an  elephant's  back,  a  sphinx's  calm  forehead 
turned  heavenward,  indifferent  to  human  questioning. 
There  was  something  dreadful  in  the  narrowness  and 
height  of  the  horizons ;  the  gulches  suggested  the  beau 
ties  and  terrors  of  an  unknown  world. 

Phoebe  Ellen  sat  silent  through  it  all,  listening  to  the 
conversation  between  Anny  and  Sam.  She  was  as  com 
pletely  out  of  it  as  if  she  had  not  existed.  She  was  con 
scious  of  a  gradually  increasing  sense  of  indignation.  Sam 
Tinker  had  crushed  her,  and  was  gloating  over  her  humili 
ation.  She  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  assert  herself,  to 
impress  herself  upon  the  moment,  so  that  he  would  remain 
in  awe  of  her  forever.  But  occasion  was  not  propitious ; 
and  even  had  she  seen  her  way  to  some  violent  act  of  self- 
assertion  she  would  have  failed  to  grasp  it,  in  the  assur 
ance  that  somehow  he  would  get  the  advantage  of  her. 
Only  once  did  her  displeasure  manifest  itself,  and  that 


40 


was  when  he  took  a  pipe  and  a  bag  of  tobacco  from  his 
pocket  and  prepared  to  fire  up. 

"  Objeck  to  smokin'?"  he  aske'd,  over  his  shoulder,  after 
he  had  rammed  the  tobacco  in  with  his  forefinger  and 
packed  it  with  his  thumb. 

"Not  a  bit/'  was  Anny's  cordial  answer. 

But  at  this  point  Phoebe  Ellen's  longing  to  assert  herself 
overcame  her  discretion,  and  her  pent-up  anger  exploded. 

"  Well,  1  do  !"  she  cried.  The  noisy  fierceness  of  her 
tone  was  funny,  and  she  half  comprehended  its  absurdity. 
"I  hate  it!" 

Sam  scratched  a  match  on  his  overalls  and  applied  it 
deliberately.  Then  he  took  two  or  three  leisurely  pulls, 
and,  after  making  sure  of  the  draught,  tightened  the  reins 
with  a  suddenness  which  brought  the  horses  to  their 
haunches. 

"Whoa  !"  he  cried. 

"Good  land  !"  cried  Anny.  "Anything  broke  ?  How 
ye  skeered  me  !  Wot's  the  matter  ?" 

He  jerked  his  head  towards  Phoebe  Ellen,  who  was  di 
rectly  behind  him. 

"  She  don't  like  smoking"  he  answered,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  as  he  flung  an  enormous  puff  in  Phoebe  Ellen's 
direction,  "V  I  didn't  know  but  wot  she'd  like  to  git  out 
'n'  walk  the  rest  o'  the  way."  They  remained  motion 
less  for  two  or  three  minutes  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
"  Hey  ?"  he  finally  asked,  half  turning,  as  if  to  catch 
Phoebe  Ellen's  answer. 

Her  reply  came  after  another  moment  of  silence. 

"  Ye  kin  drive  along,"  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice.  "/ 
kin  stan'  it,  I  reckon.  I'm  learnin'  to  stan'  anything  1" 

And  as  the  horses  started  once  more  she  resolved  in  her 
heart  more  firmly  than  ever  to  let  Sam  Tinker  alone  as 
long  as  his  services  were  necessary  on  the  ranch.  But  he 
and  Anny  went  on  talking  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
They  were  getting  acquainted  with  a  vengeance.  She 


41 


wondered  why  Anny  didn't  climb  over  on  the  front  seat 
in  order  to  be  closer  to  him.  "They  might  whisper  to 
each  other  then,"  she  thought,  bitterly. 

Down,  still  down  they  went  among  the  gulches.  Here 
the  foot-hills  parted,  as  if  to  reveal  the  awful  purple 
stretches  of  pines  on  distant  mountain-sides ;  there  the 
shadows  of  clouds  made  gorgeous  blue  daubs  along  the 
red  and  yellow  mesas ;  close  at  hand  the  trees  looked  like 
black  splashes  among  the  rocks,  as  if  a  battle  of  literary 
Titans  had  taken  place  there,  and  the  ink  from  broken 
bottles  had  not  yet  dried.  The  pines  and  aspens  grew 
thicker  and  thicker  on  the  uplands  ;  the  willows  and  cot- 
tonwoods  hid  the  hurrying  water ;  the  rock-maple  sent 
its  projectile-like  curves  throughout  the  long  line  at  the 
foot  of  the  cliffs,  as  if  a  fairy  army  were  opening  its  bat 
teries  upon  the  road  ;  clematis  twined  over  tree  trunks 
and  low  shrubs ;  sweetbrier  sent  its  cool  incense  up  from 
shady  places. 

"  This  'ere's  suthin'  like,"  said  Anny,  with  a  long  breath 
of  satisfaction.  "  Ye  kin  breathe  'ere.  Ye  kin  look 
aroun'  'thout  feelin'  sorry  ye  ain't  somers  else." 

"  It's  purtier  still  to  the  ranch,"  Sam  assured  her. 

"  Is  it  fur  yit  ?" 

"  Only  a  little  ways.  Ye  turn  a  rock  'n'  come  right  on 
it  all  to  wunst — a  little  above  it,  '11'  it  lays  all  afore  ye, 
like  it  was  spread  out  a-purpose  to  be  looked  at." 

"  I  know  I'll  like  it,"  said  Anny,  with  a  fervent  glance 
around  her. 

The  road  narrowed.  One  wheel  of  the  wagon  was  in 
the  current  for  a  little  way.  A  steep  scramble  down  one 
side  of  a  miniature  waterfall,  a  plunge  into  the  cool  green 
shadows  of  the  cottonwoods,  a  whirl  to  the  left  around  a 
spur  of  rock,  and  then — 

"Here  we  be  !"  cried  Sam  Tinker. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  valley  lay  all  below  them,  narrow  and  irregular 
and  green,  beginning  as  a  fall  where  the  rocks  split  and 
let  the  river  through,  below  which  a  pool  whirled  its  foam 
and  bubbles  among  conflicting  currents,  and  still  farther 
down  expanded  into  shallows  and  ripples  and  noise.  Be 
low  that  the  stream  uncoiled  its  silvery  length  along  the 
green  of  the  lowlands,  and  was  lost  to  the  eye  among  dis 
tant  willows  before  it  disappeared  from  the  landscape  in 
the  stately  curve  of  the  valley  which  bounded  the  view  on 
the  south.  Just  now  the  water  was  dulled  by  the  after 
noon  shadows,  and  the  only  gleam  visible  was  the  white 
of  the  shallows  here  and  there  among  the  trees  ;  but  had 
it  been  earlier  in  the  clay  the  current  would  have  sent 
forth  a  flash  so  sharp  as  to  hurt  the  eye  and  oblige  it  to 
turn  for  rest  towards  the  pine-clad  ridges  and  the  blue 
sky. 

The  stream  they  had  been  following  took  a  sudden  turn 
to  the  left  and  plunged  into  the  bottoms,  where  its  course 
to  the  river  could  be  traced  by  willoAVS  and  alders  and  a 
tenderer  growth  of  grass.  There  were  mountains  on  every 
side,  stopping  up  both  ends  of  the  valley  and  sheltering 
it  as  if  taking  thought  of  its  peace  and 'comfort.  The 
summits  took  the  shapes  of  towers  and  walls  and  domes ; 
pinnacles  and  Gothic  arches  and  flying  buttresses  pro 
duced  the  effect  of  Cyclopean  architecture  in  ruins. 
There  were  rows  of  sculpture,  too,  set  high  on  the  rocks 
— stately  statues  of  men  and  women  in  crudely  carved 
drapery,  and  busts  of  Titans  defying  heaven — moulded  by 
the  random  chisel  of  the  Storm  in  those  mad  moments 


43 

when  he  dashes  to  his  work  with  the  floods  in  one  hand 
and  the  lightnings  in  the  other. 

The  sun  still  took  the  mountain-tops  in  flashes  of  green 
and  gold,  and  brought  the  pines  on  slope  and  ridge  into 
sharp  relief  against  the  sky.  The  valley  was  all  in  shadow, 
but  who  can  describe  the  distances  made  plain  by  those 
shades  of  luminous  obscurity  which  always  fill  sheltered 
spaces  where  the  light  is  dropped  down  by  reflections  from 
the  upper  air?  At  the  lower  end  of  the  long  "open" 
the  peaks  were  only  dreams  of  mountains ;  the  foot-hills 
on  the  west  were  so  heavily  and  softly  purple  that  they 
seemed  to  have  been  woven  with  a  velvet  nap  ;  the  nearer 
distances  were  purple,  too,  with  aerial  touches  of  gray  and 
violet  along  swell  and  hollow.  The  pines  made  the  slopes 
all  soft  and  feathery,  here  black,  there  purple,  there  green 
— even  yellow  where  the  sunshine  still  lingered  on  the 
heights. 

On  the  bottoms  were  outlined  angular  spaces  under  cul 
tivation.  An  oat -field  thrust  its  sharp  corner  to  the 
highest  point  of  the  irrigation  ditch,  clear  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  and  thence  stretched  to  the  river  in  widening 
lines,  a  mottled  expanse  of  sensitive  gray  which  seemed 
to  thrill  with  a  nervous  ecstasy  as  the  wind  passed.  The 
coarse,  wholesome  green  of  potato -tops  gave  utilitarian 
value  to  a  stretch  of  black  soil  near  the  willows  by  the 
river.  Farther  up-stream,  enclosed  in  a  neat  brush  paling, 
was  a  garden-plot  whose  contents,  with  the  exception  of 
several  lusty  rows  of  pea-vines,  could  not  be  determined 
in  'detail  at  a  distance,  but  which  inspired  a  joyous  con 
fidence  that  everything  good  grew  there  in  its  season  and 
tasted  better  for  having  absorbed  the  pure  air  and  water 
of  the  mountains. 

The  ranch  buildings  were  placed  on  a  slope  well  back 
from  the  river,  and  shaded  by  the  hills  at  morning  and 
evening  and  by  the  pines  at  noon.  Their  irregularity  was 
in  itself  picturesque,  making  them  one  with  the  rocks  and 


44 


trees  among  which  they  were  scattered.  They  were  bnilt 
of  logs  with  adobe  chinking,  and  roofed  with  slabs  and 
thatch.  There  were  so  many  barns,  all  so  low,  and  lying 
at  such  queer  angles  with  each  other,  that  their  builder 
might  have  been  some  primitive  architectural  giant,  who 
in  a  frolic  had  played  jackstones  with  them  after  their 
completion.  There  was  a  wagon-shed,  a  hen-park,  a  pig 
pen  with  a  princely  domain  for  a  rooting-ground  by  the 
river  ;  there  were  long  rows  of  stanchions  under  a  thatched 
shed ;  and  several  big  corrals,  built  of  mighty  logs  at  the 
base,  and  slanting  up  to  top-rails  of  little  saplings,  were 
visible  at  irregular  distances  from  the  barns.  One  saw 
scattered  stacks  of  hay,  straw,  and  alfalfa,  the  overflow  of 
last  year's  abundance.  The  home  ranch,  as  the  dwelling- 
house  was  called,  was  long  and  low  like  the  other  build 
ings,  but  forever  distinguished  by  a  shingle  roof  and  a 
veranda.  The  pines  cast  an  austere  shadow  about  the 
place,  and  just  above  it  a  small  stream  dashed  headlong 
down  the  rocks  and  disappeared  in  the  irrigation  ditch 
above  the  oat-field.  The  entire  spot  looked  clean  and 
cool,  as  if  the  dew  had  just  washed  it. 

Anny  laughed  out,  drawing  in  a  slow  breath,  and  ex 
haling  it  with  the  sound  which  follows  a  gasp  of  pleas 
ure. 

" It's  lovely  I"  she  cried,  with  kindled  eyes.  "Ain't  it 
lovely,  sis  ?  'N'  it  looks  like  it  was  well  took  keer  of. 
See  how  tidy  'tis  aroun'  the  straw-stacks !  Dan  used  to 
say  that  was  a  sure  sign  o'  a  keerful  rancher.  Don't  ye 
like  it  a'ready  ?  It  is  difrent  from  Xebrasky." 

Phoebe  Ellen  set  her  jaws  before  answering. 

"  It  '11  do,"  was  all  that  could  be  got  from  her. 

"It's  the  purtiest  spot  atop  o'  God's  green  airth,"  de 
clared  Sam  Tinker,  as  solemnly  as  if  repeating  a  Credo. 
"  'N'  not  only  that,  but  they's  money  in  it.  'Tain't  devel 
oped  yit — but  jest  you  wait !"  His  enthusiasm  compelled 
him  to  speak  more  rapidly  than  usual,  and  for  greater 


45 

convenience  he  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "We've 
allus  raised  three  crops  o'  oats  a  year — we  let  'em  seed 
theirselves  jest  afore  we  cut  'em,  V  the  errygation  does 
the  rest.  They  ain't  no  sech  thing  as  a  failure  o'  crops — 
the  place  is  pertected  from  cold  V  wind,  V  we  kin  turn 
on  the  water  when  we  like.  Be  ye  a  perfessor  ?"  he 
asked,  suddenly  turning  to  Anny. 

"  A  perfessor  ?" 

"A  church  member,  ye  know." 

"Oh  no,"  smiled  Anny,  wondering  what  was  coming  next. 

"  I  was  goin'  to  say  if  ye  was,  ye'd  feel  kinder  lost  out 
'ere  on  the  Kio  Grande." 

"  Why  ?" 

"Ye  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  pray  fer.  Our  rains 
never  las'  more  '11  a  hour  or  so  in  the  arternoon,  'n'  the 
groun'  's  dry 's  ever  afore  night.  'N'  when  we  want  rain 
we  jes  go  up  to  the  head  o'  the  ditch  'n'  turn  it  on.  It's 
a  powerful  savin'  on  a  man's  pants." 

"  Oh,"  Anny  laughed.  And  it  was  evident  that  he  en 
joyed  her  appreciation  of  his  joke,  though  he  only  smiled. 

When  she  had  laughed  sufficiently  she  began  her  ques 
tioning  anew. 

"  Where's  the  herds  brother  Dan  used  to  write  s'  much 
'bout  ?  I  don't  see  a  single  steer  iiowheres  aroun'  the 
valley." 

"  They're  scattered  all  through  the  hills.  They  don't 
hang  roun'  the  ranch  much,  'n'  we  don't  want  'em.  The 
ranch  is  eighteen  or  twenty  mile  long,  ye  know,  'n'  broad 
correspondin' — they  have  room  'nough  'thout  trespassin' 
on  the  home  ground.  They  like  it  better  to  wander  off, 
'n'  so  do  we." 

"  But  don't  they  git  lost  ?" 

"It's  got  a  fence  round  it,  the  ranch  has — it  was  fin 
ished  last  fall.  But  they  do  sometimes  wander  off." 

"  The  fence  gits  out  of  repair  ?  I  should  think  the 
wires 'ud  pull  loose." 


46 

Sam's  pipe  had  gone  out,  and  he  finished  it  by 
knocking  out  the  ashes  against  the  wheel,  loosening  the 
stem,  and  restoring  the  dismembered  apparatus  to  his 
pocket. 

"  Sometimes  they  git  cut,"  he  said. 

"Cut  ?"  repeated  Anny.     " But  how  ?" 

"  The  rustlers  does  it." 

"Oh,  the  cattle-thieves." 

Sam  nodded. 

"'N'if  ye  ketch 'em?" 

"We  deckerate  the  nearest  evergreen  with  'em." 

"  Oh,"  said  Anny,  with  a  shudder. 

"  'Tam't  s'  common  's  't  used  to  be,"  Sam  hastened  to 
say.  Then,  with  a  true  Westerner's  estimate  of  the  enor 
mity  of  cattle-stealing,  "  But  it  sarves  'em  right,  damn 
'em  !  It  sarves  'em  right !" 

Anny  changed  the  subject  hastily. 

"  I  should  think  the  cattle  'ud  freeze  out  on  the  hills  in 
the  winter." 

"  Oh,  they  would  if  they  stayed  up  on  the  higher  levels. 
But  they's  lots  o'  sheltered  places  with  grass  V  water. 
They  come  into  the  valley  then,  too — lower  down ;  V  it's 
allus  moderate  'ere.  That's  why  we've  got  the  crops  fenced 
in — it  don't  do  to  have  'em  trampled  on,  even  when  they 
ain't  growin'.  It's  rare  we  lose  any  stock  by  freezin'. 
Though  they  's  fool  steers  the  same  's  fool  humans,  V 
they  ain't  no  tellin'  wot  sort  o'  cold  weather  they'll  wan 
der  into."  Phoebe  Ellen  tightened  her  lips  as  she  won 
dered  whether  she  had  better  make  a  personal  application 
of  this  bit  of  wisdom.  "  But  they've  ketched  sight  o'  us 
from  the  home  ranch  —  see?"  he  went  on.  "That's 
Leatherhead  wavin'  both  arms  V  feet  out  in  front  o' 
the  verandy."  Sam  had  taken  off  his  sombrero  and  was 
waving  it  in  answering  greeting. 

Anny  laughed  softly.  She  was  in  a  mood  to  be  pleased 
with  everything. 


47 


" Leatherhead  !"  she  repeated.  "It's  mean  to  call  'im 
that.  0"  course  it  ain't  his  reel  name." 

"  I  d'  know  wot  his  reel  name  is — I  never  thort  to  ast. 
We  jes'  call  'im  that,  I  d'  know  why.  He'd  be  a  fool  if  he 
couldn't  cook." 

"Mebbe  that's  why/' smiled  Anny.  "'Pears  like  we 
was  overlookin'  everything,  clean  on  top  o'  the  world." 
Then  with  a  sudden  change  in  her  voice,  "'N'  Dan's 
grave — kin  we  see  that  from  'ere  ?" 

Sam  swept  his  calm  eyes  along  the  valley  to  the  build 
ings,  and  there  seemed  to  be  peering  in  among  the  shad 
ows. 

"I  kin  see  jest  where  myself,  but  I  d'  know  's  I  kin 
p'int  it  out.  Ye  see  the  big  round  rock  jest  a  little  way 
up  from  the  nigh  corner  o'  the  verandy,  with  the  pines 
all  around  it  ?" 

She  brought  her  eyes  on  a  level  with  his  pointing 
finger. 

"Yes— I  see." 

"  'N'  the  big  pine  in  the  middle  o'  the  group  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  it's  right  under  there."  He  lowered  his  hand 
to  his  knee,  where  it  rested,  ponderous  and  immobile, 
palm  downward.  "Ye  can't  see  the  heap  o'  stones — it's 
in  shadder.  It  ain't  two  minutes'  walk  from  the  front 
door.  Dan  had  the  place  all  picked  out — he  used  to  go 
up  there  'n'  lay  down  in  his  blanket  fer  hours,  afore  he 
got  so  he  couldn't  leave  the  house.  It's  a  purty  spot,  if 
a  body  wants  to  set  down  'n'  look  aroim'.  Often  when 
I've  got  a  bit  o'  harness  to  mend,  or  when  I  want  a  quiet 
pipe  all  by  myself,  I  go  up  there." 

"A  gal  could  take  'er  sewin'  V  stay  all  the  arter- 
noon,"  said  Anny.  "I  kin  jes' think  wot  'twould  be 
like." 

Sam  nodded  gravely.  And  after  a  little  meditative 
pause  she  continued  : 


48 


"It  '11  seem  like  gittin'  clost  to  Dan.  I  know  he'll 
like  it." 

Her  glance  wandered  from  the  pine  grove  up  the  road 
along  which  they  would  have  to  pass.  A  little  in  front 
of  them  the  entire  mountain-side  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
overturned  by  a  plough. 

"Ye  ain't  agoin'  to  try  to  raise  crops  on  that  hill-side, 
I  hope  ?"  she  inquired.  "  How'd  ye  manage  to  plough 
it,  anyhow  ?  Kin  ye  git  water  up  there  ?" 

Sam  moved  his  big  hand  from  his  knee  to  the  seat  be 
side  him,  gouged  his  knuckles  into  the  wood,  and  thus 
turned  so  as  to  face  her. 

"  Oh,  that's  las'  spring's  landslide,"  he  said. 

Anny  was  inclined  to  laugh,  but  he  looked  so  grave 
that  she  sobered  up  instantly. 

"  D'  ye  have  'em  every  spring  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Oftener." 

She  opened  her  mouth  and  eyes  simultaneously. 

"Every  spring,  'n'  often  atween  times.  Look  down 
b'low  there  'n'  see  wot  a  lot  o'  the  mountain  's  dumped 
itself  into  the  valley." 

"It  mus'  be  orfle  when  it's  goin',"  shivered  Anny, 
peering  over  the  road's  edge  and  down  the  slope.  "  Tell 
me  wot  it's  like." 

"  'Tain't  like  nothin'  but  jes'  wot  'tis — a  hull  mountain 
side  't  's  took  a  notion  to  go  tobogganin7.  But  it  goes 
— how  it  goes  !  'N'  it  don't  stop  till  it's  had  its  fun.  Ye 
see,  they's  a  stretch  o'  soil  'long  there — reel  adobe  soil, 
too — 't  ain't  got  no  rocks  nor  trees  nor  nothin'  to  hold  it 
in  place,  V  bein'  it's  purty  steep,  every  wunst  in  a  while 
it  gits  up  V  moves  off." 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  be  anigh  it  when  it  got  under 
way,"  remarked  Anny,  still  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
"dump." 

"It  ain't  never  done  no  harm  yit,"  said  Sam,  "fer  no 
body  hain't  happened  to  be  in  the  way  o'  it  when  it  got  on 


49 


a  tear.  The  soil  mus'  be  purty  deep  to  keep  it  up  year 
arter  year  like  it  does  ;  but  I  reckon  they  ain't  s'  much 
peels  off  's  wot  we  think." 

"  If  anybody  happened  to  be  in  the  way  o'  it  when  it  got 
started/' asked  Anny,  still  gazing  down  the  mountain-side, 
"  wot'ud  it  do  ?" 

Sam's  face  grew  solemn. 

"Bury  'em  alive/'  he  answered. 

"  Bury  'em  alive  ?"  repeated  Anny,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"So  deep,  too,  't  they  couldn't  never  be  found  till 
Jedgment  Day.  Nobody  'd  know  where  to  dig  fer  'em/' 

"  What  a  orfle  thing  !"  murmured  the  girl. 

"Ye  see,  the  road  runs  right  crossways  o'  it,  V  that's 
allus  seemed  to  me  sorter  like  flyin'  in  the  face  o'  Provi 
dence.  The  jar  o'  drivin'  over  it  might  easy  set  the  hull 
thing  into  motion.  It  never  has,  I  know  ;  but  I've  allus 
made  shore  it  might.  If  it  should  start  off  when  a  team 
was  passin'  —  well,  the  nex'  thing  seen  o'  them'^d.  be 
when  Gabriel  got  arter  'em  with  his  trumpet  V  led  'em 
home  to  glory.  I  tole  Dan  more  'n  wunst  jest  how  it 
looked  to  me,  'n'  he  'lowed  I  was  right,  V  meant  to  turn 
the  road  higher  up — ye  see,  it  could  be  easy  made  to  run 
off  there  to  the  right,  above  them  rocks.  'W  then  they 
wouldn't  be  no  danger." 

"We  kin  fix  it,"  said  Anny,  with  her  deliberative 
nod. 

"  Somehow  Dan  allus  found  suthin'  else  to  do,  with  the 
crops  or  the  live-stock,  or  suthin'.  i  Ye  '11  wait  too  long/ 
I  used  to  tell  'im.  l  Ye'll  wait  till  some  un's  killed  afore 
ye'll  reely  see  the  need  o'  it.'  But  I  never  drive  acrosst 
the  place  ''thout  feelin'  thankful  when  I'm  over.  'N'  I 
ain't  never  been  'cused  o'  bein'  nervous,  neither." 

They  paused  a  moment  for  him  to  point  out  the  various 
buildings  and  speak  of  their  uses,  and  to  call  attention  to 
one  of  the  ranch  dogs  which  was  bounding  up  the  road  to 


50 


meet  them ;  then  he  gathered  up  the  reins  preparatory 
to  driving  on. 

"  Wait  a  minute  !"  cried  Anny,  suddenly,  clutching  his 
sleeve.  "  I  want  to  git  out  V  walk." 

He  turned  with  a  look  of  smiling  question. 

"How  silly!"  snapped  Phoebe  Ellen.  "Wot  freak's 
gone  V  struck  ye  now  ?" 

"It  ain't  but  a  step,"  persisted  Anny,  "Vail  down 
hill." 

"  Oh,  'tain't  the  distance  I  objeck  to,"  explained  Phoebe 
Ellen,  in  a  biting  tone.  "It's  the  idee.  Wot's  the  mean- 
in'  o'  it  ?  Flopdoodlin'  in  V  out  o'  a  waggin  like  they 
wa'n't  nothin'  perm'nent  nor  settled  in  the  world  !" 

Anny  looked  abashed  but  determined. 

"  Is  it  silly?  Well,  mebbe  'tis.  But — I  want  to  go  to 
the  house  by  way  o'  Dan's  grave.  The  idee  come  to  me 
all  to  wunst,  V I  know  he'd  like  me  to  kerry  it  out.  The 
fust  thing  I  do,  I'd  like  to  put  some  flowers  on  that  pile  o' 
stones — it  seems  sech  a  dretful  thing  to  be  buried  under 
a  pile  o'  stones,  sis — "  Her  voice  wavered  and  broke. 
Phoebe  Ellen  made  no  further  objection,  and  her  grim  face 
visibly  relaxed  as  her  eyes  wandered  back  from  Anny  to 
the  pine  grove  where  her  brother  was  buried. 

"  I'll  help  ye  to  'light,"  said  Sam,  his  strong  features 
taking  an  added  degree  of  strength  from  his  approval. 

"  No,  don't  mind,"  Anny  replied,  and  she  was  out  upon 
the  ground  before  he1  fairly  knew  what  had  happened. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  wagon  rolled  down  the  slope.  The  dog  from  the 
ranch,  facetiously  named  Investigator,  came  up  with  wag 
ging  tail  and  lolling  tongue,  and,  after  a  lusty  greeting  from 
Sam,  went  on  to  make  Army's  acquaintance.  Sam  looked 
back  once,  and  saw  the  two  moving  soberly  along  above 
the  road,  already  on  the  best  of  terms  and  thoroughly  ap 
proving  of  each  other,  as  good  dogs  and  good  people  al 
ways  do.  Anny  was  gathering  Mariposa  lilies,  and  bunch 
ing  them  in  her  left  hand  by  their  long  stems. 

ee  Dan  liked  them  posies  best  o'  all,"  Sam  reflected. 
"Queer  't  she  should  strike  'em  fust  off  to  fix  up  his 
grave  with.  Tears  like  she  gits  at  things  the  right  way 
'thout  bein'  told.  That's  everything  in  a  woomarn  !" 

He  crossed  the  landslide  and  went  considerably  beyond 
without  turning  to  look  at  her  again.  But  he  had  the 
picture  of  her  in  his  mind,  holding  her  bouquet  a  little 
aloft  as  she  bent  to  add  to  it,  while  Investigator  observed 
her  with  grave  interest,  as  if  it  were  his  affair,  too.  Imag 
ination  was  not  Sam's  strong  point,  but  he  had  never  re 
ceived  a  more  vivid  impression  than  that  of  the  young 
girl,  stepping  lightly  upward  into  the  feathery  gray  of  the 
mountain-sage  and  seeming  to  carry  sunshine  up  the  hill, 
though  it  was  all  in  shadow.  Phoebe  Ellen  rode  silently, 
and  he  was  glad  of  that.  Her  mood  of  sullen  patience 
was  better  than  anything  she  was  capable  of  in  the  way  of 
speech. 

All  at  once  a  whirring  sound  seemed  to  pass  through  the 
clatter  of  the  wagon — a  sort  of  acoustic  blur,  something 
deadening,  benumbing — a  sort  of  aerial  paralysis.  Was  it 


52 

a  sound,  or  only  a  motion  at  a  distance  ?  It  might  have 
been  an  expansion  or  contraction  of  the  air  itself,  a  stir 
through  infinite  spaces  ;  a  hush,  maybe,  dropped  from  the 
serene  blue  zenith,  or  rising  from  unimaginable  depths. 
The  horses  slackened  their  speed  of  their  own  accord,  the 
mustang  laid  back  his  ears  and  flung  out  with  a  startled 
irregularity.  For  an  instant — which  was  too  long — the 
world  seemed  listening,  breathless,  intent  on  some  horror 
to  be  let  loose  in  the  wake  of  this  audible  hush.  And 
the  hush  itself — had  a  meteor  crossed  the  sky  unseen  ? 
Ordinary  sounds  made  themselves  heard — the  ripple  of 
the  river,  persistent,  monotonous,  horrible;  then  other 
sounds,  louder  and  more  horrible — the  sound  of  solids 
straining  apart,  mysterious  flutterings  all  about,  as  if 
the  blind  forces  of  Nature  wrere  stirring  to  anger. 

"  Wot  is  it  ?"  whispered  Phoebe  Ellen,  vaguely  horrified, 
as  one  who  receives  a  warning  of  death. 

The  solid  earth  quivered,  a  dull  rumble  broke  the  si 
lence  of  the  hills. 

Sam  Tinker  knew  what  it  all  meant.  He  had  been 
through  it  before. 

"  It's  the  landslide/'  he  answered,  with  an  awful 
calm. 

Phoebe  Ellen  echoed  his  word,  not  understanding  it. 
She  was  like  one  who  has  suddenly  become  deaf. 

"  The  landslide  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  started,"  he  declared.  His  features  were  white, 
his  lips  were  drawn  thin  against  his  teeth.  "  God 
Almighty  couldn't  stop  it  now  I" 

"  Wot  a  queer  noise  !"  said  Phoebe  Ellen.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  she  still  did  not  understand. 

But  the  knowledge  of  their  situation  grew  into  her  face 
in  set  lines  which  made  her  look  as  if  she  were  screaming. 
Her  first  thought  was  of  herself.  She  had  not  yet  looked 
back  towards  her  sister. 


53 

"  But  ain't  we  acrosst  it  ?"  she  managed  to  gasp.  Her 
voice  sounded  as  if  a  man's  hand  were  at  her  throat. 

"  We  ?     Wot  o'  that  ?     But  yer  sister—" 

He  had  turned  in  fyis  seat,  and  was  staring  behind  him 
with  bursting  eyes. 

"  Great  God  !     Look  I" 

She  cared  for  what  was  happening  behind  her — she 
realized  as  the  less  of  two  horrors  that  some  dreadful 
calamity  had  befallen  her  sister,  but  a  still  more  dreadful 
fate  was  staring  herself  and  Sam  in  the  face. 

"The  horses!"  she  gasped,  clutching  his  arm  in  her 
fear.  "  They're  pitchin'  us  over  the  mountain-side  !" 

Sam  had  forgotten  the  team  in  the  horror  of  watching 
what  was  taking  place  behind  him.  He  turned,  tighten 
ing  the  reins  mechanically  in  a  grip  of  iron.  The  horses 
had  dragged  the  wagon  out  of  the  road,  and  were  rearing 
and  plunging.  Another  lurch,  and  they  would  all  be 
hurled  down  the  mountain-side  together. 

"Jump!"  he  cried.  "I  kin  hold  'em  a  minute, 'n' 
then  they'll  have  to  take  keer  o'  theirselves.  The  mus 
tang's  gone  clean  mad.  Jump !  We  mus'  go  back  to 
Phoebe  Ellen  !" 

She  gathered  her  skirts  about  her  and  cleared  the  wheel 
at  a  bound.  And  even  as  she  did  so,  by  some  dual  action 
of  the  mind  which  is  as  mysterious  as  it  is  common,  she 
felt  a  foolish  anger  that  he  should  confuse  her  identity 
with  her  sister's — as  if  she  had  not  given  him  sufficient 
reason  to  know  her  !  "  I  didn't  reckon  he  was  thick 
headed,"  she  had  time  to  think  before  she  touched  the 
ground.  "  But  he  is.  That  '11  be  a  p'int  agin  'im  if  I  ever 
want  to  come  down  on  'im  heavy."  And  then  she  was 
standing  by  the  road-side,  conscious  of  nothing  but  that 
the  world  was  full  of  horrors  and  that  the  climax  had  not 
yet  come,  and  that  she  had  no  means  of  preventing  it. 

Meanwhile  Sam  had  also  leaped  out,  and,  with  a  dexter 
ous  pull — the  strength  of  steel  operated  by  the  quickness 


54 

of  lightning — had  got  the  horses  once  more  into  the  road ; 
then  he  flung  the  reins  over  the  dashboard,  and  left  the 
frightened  brutes  to  rush  as  madly  as  they  pleased  towards 
the  barn. 

All  this  had  taken  but  a  moment — a  moment  charged 
with  life  and  death.  Then  Sam  was  dashing  full  run  up 
the  hill.  He  had  breath  and  strength  enough — Perseus 
rushing  to  the  rescue  of  Andromeda  had  not  more  of  the 
vigor  of  manhood  in  him  —  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  struggling  in  a  nightmare,  beating  the  air  vainly 
with  hands  and  feet,  and  panting  in  the  agony  of  being 
unable  to  move. 

The  rumbling  in  the  air  had  grown  to  a  roar — a  roar 
with  potential  volumes  of  sound  behind  it  which  might 
crack  the  hills.  The  noise  seemed  to  strike  into  the 
ground  and  set  it  into  sympathetic  vibration ;  it  was  as 
if  the  earth  had  been  stricken  with  ague  and  sat  shiv 
ering. 

Sam's  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  landslide,  and  he  no 
ticed  the  noises  about  him  only  as  an  accompaniment  of 
the  horror  taking  place  there.  It  was  all  before  him — a 
foot-hill  in  motion,  a  world  falling  back  into  chaos.  Im 
agine  a  mountain-side  torn  off  like  a  piece  of  rotten  cloth, 
and  flung  down  by  forces  which  are  at  once  the  preservers 
and  destroyers  of  the  universe  ! 

As  yet  there  was  little  dust,  and  though  things  were 
distinctly  visible  among  the  late  afternoon  shadows,  Sam 
saw  them  as  if  they  stood  out  in  the  glare  of  the  sun,  or 
as  if  they  were  illuminated  by  a  light  within  them.  The 
rocks  and  trees  beyond  the  moving  expanse  seemed  to  be 
climbing  uphill ;  there  were  queer,  dizzying  effects  in 
everything,  as  if  the  world  were  drunk  and  reeling. 

Nothing  irregular  or  irruptive  disturbed  the  movement 
of  the  downpouring  mass,  no  tossing  of  cross-currents,  no 
upbreaking  against  obstructions,  no  heaving  where  oppos 
ing  forces  met ;  but  a  steady  downrush,  smooth  and  rapid. 


55 

like  water  pouring  over  a  dam.  Its  smooth  obedience  to 
gravity  must  have  seemed  beautiful  to  Him  who  created 
force  and  gave  it  its  power  to  upbuild  or  destroy.  Noth 
ing  could  heighten  its  speed  but  the  energy  which  had  set 
it  in  motion  ;  nothing  could  stop  it  but  the  same  energy 
opposed  in  the  solid  earth  on  its  own  level.  But  with  all 
its  leaden  compliance  with  the  power  which  inspired  it, 
it  possessed  the  most  resistless  fury  of  all  —  the  fury  of 
inert  things  when  they  once  get  under  way. 

"  She  ain't  in  the  wust  o'  it,"  thought  Sam,  still  rush 
ing  upward.  "  She  must  'a,'  been  'most  acrosst."  And, 
indeed,  Anny  had  nearly  passed  the  dangerous  tract  when 
it  began  to  move.  She  had  been  caught  in  the  hither 
edge,  and  the  cataract  of  loosened  soil  was  bearing  her 
downward  not  rapidly,  but  with  an  uncertain,  half-rotary 
movement,  as  a  straw  is  whirled  along  the  margin  of  a 
brook.  The  movement  was  at  once  confusing  and  terri 
fying  ;  and  though  slow,  it  was  too  strong  to  permit  the 
three  steps  crosswise  which  would  have  led  her  to  safety. 
That  the  swiftest  current  was  beyond  her  was  evident 
from  the  fact  that  she  was  still  standing,  though  she  re 
mained  upright  with  difficulty. 

"They's  a  chance  fer  *er,"  thought  Sam,  "if  the  slide 
makes  a  curve  so  's  to  fling  'er  out  on  the  solid  ground. 
But  even  then  the  shock  might  kill  *er." 

Seeing  that  she  would  probably  be  carried  below  the 
point  he  was  aiming  at,  he  now  shaped  his  course  so  as  to 
come  up  with  her  lower  down.  The  dust  was  billowing 
up  the  mountain-side  as  before  a  strong  wind,  but  as  yet 
the  cloud  had  not  reached  them,  and  he  could  see  her 
struggling  to  retain  her  foothold  and  remaining  upright 
on  the  whirling  ground  as  by  a  miracle.  At  the  point 
towards  which  he  was  running  there  was  a  sort  of  eddy  in 
the  downstreaming  mass,  close  by  a  group  of  mingled 
rocks  and  pines.  He  reached  the  spot  just  as  she  was  a 
few  feet  above  him.  "  If  she  passes  me  Fll  fling  myself 


56 

in  arter  'er,  'n'  we'll  both  go  down  together/7  was  his 
desperate  thought. 

Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  him.  If  she  had  called 
out  before,  the  noise  had  drowned  her  voice,  but  now  she 
flung  out  her  arms  towards  him  and  uttered  a  cry.  He 
heard  it  ringing  out  as  if  above  the  ruins  of  the  world. 
Then  a  swirling  eddy  seized  her.  She  tottered,  struggled, 
and  with  her  eyes  still  upon  him  and  her  arms  extended, 
she  fell,  and  he  could  distinguish  nothing  more  ;  for  the 
cloud  of  dust  at  this  moment  reached  them— a  breaking 
surge  of  neither  earth  nor  air,  but  both,  which  blinded 
and  suffocated  and  destroyed. 

Had  the  broken  soil  near  the  rocks  poured  over  and  en 
gulfed  her — buried  her  alive  ?  "Would  he  not  even  be  able 
to  guess  where  she  had  fallen  ?  If  he  could  but  find 
some  trace  of  her — the  hem  of  her  garment,  the  flutter  of 
a  lock  of  hair,  he  might  dig  her  out  with  his  hands  and 
restore  her  yet.  He  leaped  up  the  few  steps  remaining 
between  him  and  the  spot  where  she  had  disappeared, 
while  the  adobe  flood  went  pouring  smoothly,  thunder 
ously  past,  until  he  heard  it  strike  the  valley  with  a  crash 
as  if  two  planets  had  come  together  in  full  career. 

Close  to  the  group  of  rocks  Sam  found  her,  lying  face 
upward  upon  the  ground,  her  arms  flung  out  as  if  they 
had  been  wrenched  by  violent  hands.  She  had  fallen  in 
the  direction  of  the  rocks,  and  the  edge  of  the  torrent  had 
dragged  her  feet  downward  while  a  sort  of  side-ripple  had 
buried  her  to  her  waist.  Her  face  was  uncovered,  and  he 
noticed,  in  spite  of  the  dust,  how  white  she  looked  against 
the  moist  gray  of  the  upturned  ground.  She  lay  quite 
motionless ;  her  eyes  were  half  open  in  the  glassy,  unsee 
ing  stare  of  the  dead. 

The  dog,  which  had  been  in  advance  of  her,  had  come 
back,  and  now  began  to  sniff  about  her  clothing.  Sam 
drove  him  off  with  a  thrill  of  horror ;  there  was  some 
thing  in  the  animal's  approach  that  was  like  an  assurance 


57 


of  death.  He  lifted  and  dragged  the  body  back  among 
the  pines  ;  the  dirt  fell  away  from  her  clothes  in  dusty 
flakes.  Her  weight  was  nothing  to  his  strength,  but  he 
felt  it  with  the  dread  of  one  who  is  alert  to  one  particular 
kind  of  fear.  Under  the  pines  he  bent  over  her,  placing 
his  ear  to  her  heart.  He  could  hear  nothing  but  the 
blood  in  his  own  temples  pulsating  stormily.  He  straight 
ened  himself,  flinging  back  his  head  and  suppressing  a  cry 
in  the  effort  to  be  calm.  He  bent  again  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  heart,  but  it  Avas  quite  still.  He  listened  again, 
and  the  blood  in  his  temples  seemed  to  listen  too ;  but 
there  was  no  sound,  no  movement.  She  lay  so  horribly 
helpless  that  it  seemed  a  proof  of  the  worst. 

Phoebe  Ellen  came  panting  up  the  hill.  He  did  not  see 
her  till  her  face  burst  through  the  cloud  which  still  sur 
rounded  them  and  thrust  itself  close  to  his.  Even  then 
he  did  not  see  her  wholly,  only  the  convulsed,  peering  face 
in  a  yellow  blur  which  hid  her  body.  It  was  like  a  meet 
ing  of  lost  souls  in  the  nether  world. 

"  She's  dead/'  was  his  answer  to  the  question  her  hor 
rified  silence  asked  of  him. 


CHAPTER  YII 

PHCEBE  ELLEN'S  wide  eyes  passed  from  Sam's  face  to 
her  sister's.  She  was  gasping,  and  it  took  some  time  for 
her  to  stop  enough  breath  in  her  throat  to  make  an  audi 
ble  sound. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  it !"  she  finally  managed  to  say.  But 
her  voice  cracked  in  the  effort  of  speech,  and  she  had  to 
struggle  anew  before  she  could  go  on.  "  It's  only  a  faintin'- 
fit.  Lemme  see." 

She  knelt  down  by  the  body  on  the  opposite  side  from 
Sam  and  unloosed  Anny's  dress.  Then  she  bent  over, 
laying  her  ear  close  to  the  heart. 

"It  don't  beat,"  she  whispered,  after  a  moment  of 
strained  listening. 

"No,"  he  answered,  in  a  dull  voice. 

"Is  she  dead?"  Phoebe  Ellen's  tone  was  piteous.  She 
had  settled  back  and  was  clasping  both  arms  around  her 
knee,  while  she  awaited  his  answer.  But  no  answer 
came.  He  turned  away  in  silence.  Was  he  crying  ?  She 
could  not  tell. 

Then  they  found  themselves  staring  at  each  other 
across  the  body,  helpless  before  the  fact  they  could  not  fully 
realize.  And  Phoebe  Ellen  began  to  rock  herself  to  and 
fro  in  a  dreary,  rhythmic  way,  quite  meaningless,  except 
as  it  gave  color  to  this  indefinite  horror.  She  did  not 
weep,  she  did  not  cry  out.  It  was  too  soon  for  that,  and 
probably  it  was  not  her  way.  But  presently,  as  she  swayed 
back  and  forth,  she  began  to  speak,  at  first  brokenly,  then 
with  a  dreary  monotony  of  utterance  whose  very  incon 
gruity  seemed  to  voice  the  doom  of  death. 


59 


"  How  queer,  how  queer  't  she  should  be  dead  !  Plow 
queer  't  she  should  be  layin'  'ere  with  'er  head  on  my 
lap  V  'er  eyes  wide  open  'n'  keep  so  still  when  I  try  to 
wake  'er  up  !  Why,  I've  seen  folks  't  might  a-died  'n'  I'd 
never  a-thort  o'  it  a  second  time — I've  heerd  o'  sech,  V 
Beared  like  it  was  the  reg'lar  thing.  But  her — why,  she 
was  that  full  o'  life — ye  seen  'er,  don't  ye  'member  how 
pink  'er  cheeks  was,  'n'  how  'er  eyes  was  allus  shinin'  ? 
Ye  seen  'er,  ye  know  how  she  looked.  It  seems  so  horrid 
queer.  Wot  did  she  git  out  o'  the  waggin  fer,  anyway  ? 
Oh,  them  posies  on  the  hill-side — it  was  Dan's  grave  she 
was  thinkin'  of.  'JSP  now  we'll  have  to  bury  'er  up  there 
Alongside  o'  'im,  'n'  make  the  stone-pile  big  'nough  fer 
two.  'W  she'd  looked  forrard  so  joyful  to  livin'  out  'ere 
on  the  Eio  Grande.  She'd  took  a  notion  to  the  very  name 
— I've  heerd  'er  say  how  it  sounded  like  music.  'N'  to  die 
jes'  's  she  gits  'ere — " 

Sam  had  been  facing  her  with  folded  arms.  She  saw 
him  dash  his  big  fist  across  his  eyes.  "Where's  God  to 
let  sech  things  go  on  ?"  he  cried  out.  There  was  more  in 
his  words  than  rebellion  against  Heaven ;  it  was  the  cry 
of  a  personal  loss,  the  wail  of  a  hope  which  had  perished 
at  its  birth.  Phoebe  Ellen  did  not  try  to  understand  the 
agony  which  his  voice  expressed  ;  she  was  too  busy  with 
her  own  grief  to  notice  whether  the  grief  of  another  was 
greater  or  less.  She  had  loved  Anny  in  her  own  hard, 
masterful  way,  and  her  sorrow  was  genuine. 

' *"  She  mus'  be  kerried  down,"  she  finally  said. 

te lierried  down!"  He  repeated  the  words  with  the 
emphasis  of  torment.  But  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  Yes,  kerried  down." 

"Kin  we  manage  it — you  'n'  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Why  ain't  Leatherhead  'ere  ?"  he  demanded,  in  return. 
"He  could  help." 

"She  mus'  be  got  down  somehow,"  declared  Phoebe 
Ellen.  "I  kin  kerry  'er  feet." 


60 


Sam  lifted  the  prostrate  form,  resting  the  limp  head 
against  his  shoulder.  The  staring  eyes  were  close  to  his 
face ;  the  tangled  hair  swept  his  shoulder.  "  Pore  little 
gal !"  he  kept  repeating  under  his  breath.  Her  left  arm 
dangled  helplessly.  "  Lay  it  over  'er  breast/'  he  said  to 
Phoebe  Ellen,  who  obeyed.  It  seemed  to  him  the  dan 
gling  movement  might  hurt  her  as  they  descended  the  hill. 

Half-way  down  they  met  Leatherhead  puffing  up-grade 
to  meet  them.  He  had  a  round,  futile  face  with  high 
cheek-bones  and  little  eyes  like  buttons  that  showed  the 
white  all  around  the  iris.  His  ordinary  look  was  one  of 
useless  questioning — of  helpless  surprise,  which  neither 
grew  nor  diminished,  neither  asked  satisfaction  nor  found 
it.  But  now  fright  put  a  momentary  meaning  into  his 
face. 

"  Tripe  I"  he  began.  "  She's  hurt.  Oh,  say,  is  she 
hurt  ?  'D  the  landslide  run  over  'er  ?  She  looks  bad. 
Don't  she  look  bad  ?  Wot  if  she's  croaked  ?  Ye  don't 
reckon  she  has  croaked  ?  She  looks  like  she  had.  Oh, 
Lord  !  wot  if  she  has  ?  That  'ud  be  a  go  I" 

"She's  dead,"  declared  Phoebe  Ellen,  and  Sam  nodded 
in  confirmation. 

Leatherhead  drew  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  far 
into  his  chin. 

"  Oh,  tripe  !"  he  began  again.  That  was  his  inevitable 
word  for  joy  or  sorrow,  hope  or  dread.  "Oh,  my  size  ! 
Dead  ?  No  !  Who'd  a-b'lieved  it  ?  'W  all  to  wunst  like 
that !  Great  my  !" 

These  exclamatory  futilities  overcame  Sam  with  a  rush 
of  anger.  It  was  an  offence  to  listen  to  them.  Leather 
head  made  a  movement  to  assist  him  with  his  burden,  but 
a  glare  warned  him  back. 

"I'll  'tend  to  'er,"  said  Sam,  fiercely.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  declaring  her  his  in  spite  of  death.  And  he  bore 
the  body  alone,  Phoebe  Ellen  struggling  along  at  his  side 
and  awkwardly  trying  to  support  the  dangling  feet. 


61 

Leatherhead  and  the  dog  brought  np  the  rear  of  the 
little  procession,  one  about  as  intelligently  sympathetic  as 
the  other.  Leatherhead  began  an  exclamatory  remon 
strance  and  explanation. 

"  Oh,  well,  tripe  !  Wot's  the  use  o'  gittin'  mad  ?  Wot's 
the  use  o'  tromplin'  all  over  a  feller's  collar  'n'  dislocatin' 
his  frame  jes'  'cause  ye  want  to  kerry  a  dead  gal  down  the 
mountain-side  all  by  yerself  ?  /  don't  want  to  tech  'er  ! 
Well,  I  don't  keer — go  it  yer  own  way ;  wot's  the  odds  ? 
I  ain't  done  nothin',  V  I  don't  mean  to.  There  I  was — 
tripe  !  ye  seen  me  yerself  to  the  door,  a-wavin'  'n'  a- wag- 
gin';  I'd  been  lookin'  fer  a  good  hour  afore  ye  showed  up, 
'n'  then — there  ye  was  !  So  I  run  back  to  see  to  supper — 
say,  them  trout  I  ketched  a-purpose  ? — I'd  jes'  got  'em 
rolled  in  flour,  V  was  puttin'  'em  onto  the  griddle  when — 
tripe  !  there  went  the  lan'slide  !  I  knowed  in  a  minute 
wot  'twas.  I  run  to  the  winder  full  tilt,  but  I  couldn't 
see  things  clear.  Only  the  mountain  was  a-stirrin' — it  was 
a-stirrin',  I  could  see  that.  But  say,  in  a  minute  I  seen 
the  hosses  flyin'  down  the  road  ?  My  shape  !  the  way  that 
buckboard  struck  the  barn  !  But  the  trunk  was  in,  '11' 
nothin'  wa'n't  busted  't  I  could  see.  'Well/  says  I  to 
myself,  '  hell's  allus  up  to  suthin'  in  Collyrado !'  But 
•'twouldn.'t  a-made  no  differ  if  the  hull  outfit  'd  been 
smashed.  I  wouldn't  a-seen  it.  I  fergot  the  trout — 
they're  burnin'  up  this  minute.  Tripe  !  Dead !  But 
which  one  is  she  ?  The  one  't  owns  the  ranch  ?" 

Sam  shook  his  head.  Leatherhead's  drivelling  had 
grated  on  him  at  first,  but  now  he  was  strangely  passive. 

"  No,"  he  answered.     "  It's  the  other— Phoebe  Ellen." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  the  heiress  's  left — "  Leatherhead  began 
once  more.  But  no  one  was  listening.  Phoebe  Ellen  had 
opened  her  mouth  to  assert  her  individuality  once  for  all 
— it  seemed  so  stupid  that  Anny  should  be  mistaken  for 
her — but  she  felt  sick  and  faint,  and  the  idea  of  expla 
nation  was  distasteful.  "By-'n'-by,"  she  said  to  herself. 


62 

She  could  not  talk  just  now.  Anny  was  dead — she  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that. 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  buildings  as  she  approached, 
nor  of  the  room  into  which  her  sister  was  carried. 
Leatherhead  was  standing  about  on  one  leg — his  ineffect 
ual  face  with  its  feeble,  surprised  eyes  seemed  staring 
from  every  corner — and  Sam  commanded  him  to  bring 
some  hot  water  and  brandy. 

"  AVe  mus'  try  to  bring  'er  to,"  Sam  said,  with  some 
thing  of  his  old  decision.  "  It  may  be  only  a  long  faint. 
I've  knowed  cases  where  they  was  brought  to  their  senses 
arter  hours." 

Leatherhead  looked  offended. 

(( Ye  said  she  was  dead  !"  was  his  wide-eyed  expostulation. 

"  Git  wot  I  tell  ye  !"  was  Sam's  savage  answer. 

And  Leatherhead  disappeared,  gazing  back  with  his 
look  of  futile  questioning. 

The  body  was  laid  upon  a  bed  near  a  window.  A 
dull  light  came  into  the  room — a  twilight  which  seemed 
funereal  in  its  sombre  grayness.  Leatherhead  toddled  in 
and  out  with  inadequate  bustle,  casting  wild  glances  of 
inquiry  at  nothing  in  particular,  and  bursting  into  inco 
herent  ejaculations  without  notice  and  subsiding  without 
cause.  And  presently,  through  a  sort  of  sick  blur,  Phoebe 
Ellen  saw  Sam  with  a  bottle  and  spoon  trying  to  force 
some  liquid  between  Army's  teeth. 

"  Wot  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  vaguely.  "  Wot's  happened 
now  ?  Ain't  she  dead  ?" 

But  he  was  too  busy  to  answer.  He  went  on  trying  to 
pry  the  set  jaws  apart,  spilling  the  brandy  so  that  it  ran 
down  the  girl's  chin  and  into  the  neck  of  her  dress,  but 
persisting  to  the  uttermost,  as  was  his  wont.  It  was 
ghastly  to  hear  the  spoon  rattle  against  her  teeth.  Phcebe 
Ellen  rose  with  a  suppressed  shriek. 

"  Wot  be  ye  givin'  'er  ?"  she  cried,  clutching  his  arm. 
"  Let  'er  be.  She's  dead.  Wot's  the  use  ?" 


He  looked  at  her  in  angry  surprise,  but  his  eyes  became 
pitiful  as  he  saw  how  distraught  she  was. 

"  We  mus'  try  to  do  suthin',"  he  answered,  mildly. 

She  shook  her  head  drearily. 

"  Wot's  the  use  ?"  she  repeated. 

"We'll  be  better  satisfied  in  our  minds  arterwards," 
he  said,  in  reply. 

He  poured  some  brandy  into  a  tea-cup  and  handed  it  to 
her. 

" Drink  it,"  he  commanded.  "It  'II  rouse  ye  up.  I 
want  ye  to  take  off  'er  shoes  'n'  stockings,  V  put  'er  feet 
into  hot  water.  Then  ye  kin  help  by  rubbin'  'er  wrists  'n' 
temples." 

The  strong  drink  revived  her,  and  the  world  came  back 
with  a  rush. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "we  mus'  do  suthin' — we  mus' 
keep  on  tryin'."  She  was  obeying  Sam's  commands  with 
eager  haste,  and  already  Anny's  feet  were  in  the  steaming 
water  which  Leatherhead  had  brought.  The  effort  to  do 
something  brought  her  confidence  and  hope.  <e  Mebbe 
it's  only  a  bad  faint.  Lord  !  if  we  could  bring  'er  round 
— gimme  some  brandy  in  the  cup,  quick !  I  kin  rub  ! 
If  it's  only  a  matter  o'  workin'  over  'er,  we'll  fetch 
'er  to." 

They  worked  like  mad,  but  without  result.  Sam  man 
aged  to  get  some  brandy  between  the  clinched  teeth,  but 
it  was  not  swallowed. 

"  Queer,"  muttered  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  She  don't  git  cold. 
'D  ye  notice  that  ?" 

Sam's  eyes  lighted  up  with  new  hope. 

"  It's  true  !"  he  cried,  almost  jubilantly.  "  She's  's 
warm  's  when  we  brung  'er  in."  He  lifted  one  of  the  limp 
hands.  There  was  no  sign  of  vitality  in  it,  but  it  was 
warm  and  flexible. 

"Rub  harder  !"  he  cried,  excitedly.  "If  she  was  dead 
it  'ud  show  in  'er  fingers  by  this  !  Harder,  harder  !"  And 


64 


he  poured  in  more  brandy,  while  Phoebe  Ellen  fell  to  work 
with  renewed  energy. 

Presently  she  paused  and  laid  her  ear  for  the  hundredth 
time  over  the  patient's  heart.  Her  cheek  touched  the  soft 
white  flesh,  so  that  she  could  make  sure  of  detecting  any 
disturbance  within. 

"Does  it  beat  ?"  asked  Sam,  pausing  anxiously. 

"  ~No,  but  she's  so  warm.  Ain't  she  warmer  'n  wot  she 
was  ?  She  can't  be  dead.  But  if  she  ain't,  why  don't  'er 
heart  go  ?" 

"Try  it  ag'in,"  said  Sam. 

She  listened  once  more,  Sam  bending  forward,  eager 
and  expectant.  All  at  once  she  lifted  a  startled  face. 

"Wot  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  breathlessly. 

"Id'  know — but  'peared  like — " 

"  Like  ye  heerd  it  beat  ?"  He  took  up  the  word 
eagerly. 

"I'm  shore  I  heerd  it  —  jes'  one  little  faint  flutter." 
Her  face  was  drawn  in  tense  lines,  and  she  was  listening 
again  while  Sam  sat  in  strained  silence,  as  if  his  own 
breathing  might  interfere  with  what  she  was  listening 
for. 

"  I  heerd  it !"  Phoebe  Ellen  finally  whispered.  Her 
words  were  half  lost  in  an  excited  sibilance  which  sounded 
hard  and  dry.  "  I'm  shore  I  heerd  it.  Oh,  sis,  sis  !"  She 
pressed  her  ear  closer  to  Anny's  heart.  "  There — ag'in  ! 
Faint  —  so  faint.  But  she  ain't  dead  —  she  ain't  dead! 
Now  it's  goin'  quicker — now  it's  all  quiet  ag'in.  Work — 
work  !  We'll  bring  'er  back  yit,  I  tell  ye  !" 

And  they  worked  as  if  their  own  lives  depended  on  the 
result.  The  amount  of  brandy  Sam  Tinker  poured  into 
his  patient  would  have  turned  a  practising  physician's 
eyes  to  saucers ;  but  his  methods,  heroic  though  they 
were,  finally  met  their  reward  in  a  renewal  of  the  life 
which  they  might  easily  have  extinguished.  There  was 
perceptible  a  distinct  relaxation  in  the  muscles  of  the 


65 


jaws,  and  after  Phoebe  Ellen  had  several  times  reported  a 
distinct  revival  of  the  pulsations  of  the  heart  and  a  speedy 
subsidence  in  the  inactivity,  Sam  declared  with  joy  that 
the  patient  had  tried  to  swallow.  Arid  the  next  teaspoon- 
ful  really  was  swallowed,  and  the  next,  and  the  next. 
The  heart-beats  became  distinct  and  firm,  the  half-open 
eyes  closed  as  if  in  slumber,  and  the  breath  at  last  came 
strong  and  regular. 

" Thank  God!"  said  Sam,  standing  off  and  looking 
down  at  the  patient  with  shining  eyes. 

And  ' '  Amen  I"  responded  Phoebe  Ellen,  devoutly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JUST  here  Leatherhead  burst  into  the  room. 

"  I  been  tryin'  to  git  suthin'  out  o'  the  supper  't  burnt 
up,  but — well,  I  don't  keer  fer  myself,  but  when  it  comes 
to  the  rest  o'  ye —  Tripe  !  is  she  comin'  to  ?" 

"  She's  comin'  to,"  assented  Sam,  with  satisfaction. 

Leatherhead  widened  his  little  eyes  till  the  whites  look 
ed  as  if  they  were  painted. 

"  My  size  !  She'll  want  suthin'  to  eat,  too,  won't  she  ? 
I  made  shore  she  was  dead.  I  swear,  I  feel  like  I  was  no 
good  in  life.  Well,  she'll  jest  nachelly  have  to  put  up 
with  wot  she  kin  ketch,  I'll  tell  'er  that  right  now !" 

Phoebe  Ellen's  face  relaxed.  On  the  whole,  she  liked 
Leatherhead.  He  looked  manageable,  annexable.  Be 
sides,  he  was  genuinely  solicitous  for  her  welfare  and 
Anny's. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  kindly.  "We'll  have  some 
bran-new  trout  to-morrer  —  they's  plenty  in  the  stream. 
A  cup  o'  tea  's  all  sis  '11  want,  V  the  way  I  feel  now  I 
don't  reckon  I  could  take  much  more." 

"I  kin  give  ye  cold  b'iled  ham." 

"  Ham's  good,"  said  Phcebe  Ellen. 

"'N'  I  might  warm  over  some  green  pease  't  was  left 
from  dinner."  * 

"  Ye  needn't  mind.  I  ain't  hungry.  Bring  in  the  tea — 
I  don't  feel  like  I  wanted  nothin'  more — 'n'  the  ham,  if 
ye  got  it  handy." 

Leatherhead  sighed  with  satisfaction. 

"  Ham  ?  Tea  ?  That's  soon  doctored.  Some  wimmin 
'ud  be  howlin'  fer  ice-cream  'n'  oyster  soup  'n'  cowcum'er 


67 


pickles.  But  she — !"  And  with  this  implied  compliment 
for  Phoebe  Ellen  he  left  the  room. 

' '  I'm  afeerd  I  got  orfle  upset/"  Phoebe  Ellen  remarked. 
"  They  was  fer  a  while  I  didn't  know  whether  I  was  on 
my  head  or  my  feet — wot  with  the  landslide  V  the  bosses 
V  sis  a-keelin'  over.  'TwaVt  business-like.  I'm  "shamed 
o'  it." 

"  I  was  upset,  too/'  said  Sam,  in  a  low  voice,  with  his 
eyes  on  Anny.  "  But  I  ain't  'shamed  o'  it." 

"  Queer  she  don't  open  'er  eyes/7  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  her 
glance  following  his. 

"'Pears  like  'twas  time,  don't  it  ?"  was  his  rejoinder. 

"  Give  'er  'nother  nip  o'  brandy,  hadn't  ye  better  ?" 

Sam  complied,  but  this  time  the  patient  rebelled ;  not 
consciously,  but  by  a  reflex  tightening  of  the  lips  which 
showed  that  the  body  knew  what  was  best  for  it,  even  if 
the  mind  did  not. 

"  She  breathes  perfeckly  reg'lar,"  said  Sam. 

"  Perfeckly,"  assented  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  But  they's  suthin'  horrid  in  the  way  she  don't  sense 
nothin'." 

"  Give  'er  time — give  'er  time.  I  wonder  if  she  broke 
any  bones.  Have  ye  looked  at  'er  head  ?  I  hain't." 

Sam  made  a  rapid  examination.  The  girl's  hair  lay  in 
a  tangled  mass  along  the  pillow.  He  parted  it  here  and 
there,  touching  it  gently  as  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing ; 
and  finally  on  the  right  side  of  the  head  he  discovered  a 
bruise  and  a  slight  gash. 

"  See  !"  he  said,  parting  the  hair  flat  against  the  scalp 
that  Phoebe  Ellen  might  have  a  better  look  at  the  injured 
spot. 

"  That  must  have  cold  bandages  on  it,"  she  declared. 

"Sometimes  them  things  is  deeper 'n  they  look — I've 
heerd  o'  a  thump  like  that  bein'  ser'ous.  Is  they  any  way 
o'  tellin'  ?" 

"  Not 't  I  know  of." 


68 


"I've  heerd  o'  the  brain  bein'  stopped  by  a  sudden  jar, 
like  it  was  a  clock,,  V  not  startin'  up  ag'in,  either,  till 
arter  it  had  been  doctored.  If  it  should  be  anything  like 
that—" 

Phoebe  Ellen  got  up  on  her  feet. 

"  Cold  water  won't  do  no  hurt,  nohow,"  she  declared, 
with  energy.  "Where's  some  rags  ?" 

"Til  fetch  some,"  said  Sam. 

f"W  some  water  in  a  basin.  A  ole  sheet  '11  be  jes'  the 
thing,"  she  called  after  him  as  he  reached  the  door. 
"Don't  spile  nothin'  new  by  tearin'  into  it !" 

While  he  was  gone  Leatherhead  came  in  with  her 
supper. 

"  Tripe  !"  was  his  greeting.  "  Say,  it  looks  purty  thin, 
don't  it — tea  V  cold  ham  V  bread-'n'-butter  ?  Sam's 
allus  'cusin'  me  o'  not  havin'  a  lick  o'  sense,  'n'  'fore 
George  !  I'm  beginnin'  to  b'lieve  'im.  Why  didn't  I  'tend 
to  my  bizness  'n'  look  arter  the  supper  stiddier  flyin'  up 
there  to  stop  a  lan'slide  a  hour  arter  it  had  struck  bottom  ? 
But  them  trout — one  o'  'em  I'd  been  fishin'  fer  down  there 
to  a  pool  all  summer.  7N'  to  have  'im  scorched  to  cinders 
like  that,  right  along  o'  the  others,  like  he  wa'n't  no  better 
'n  they  was — say,  that's  reel  riz  bread,  though — none  o' 
yer  sallyratus,  cowboy  truck — I  made  it  myself  !  Sam  says 
I  beat  anything  at  bread-makin'.  But  he  says  I'd  make 
a  blame  fool  o'  myself  trailin'  aroun'  on  the  range  with 
the  cattle.  But  oh  !  that's  wot  I'd  like  the  best — to  be  a 
cowboy,  with  a  lariat  'n'  chaps  'n'  a  gun." 

"  'N'  yer  head  smashed  by  a  buckin'  bronco,"  finished 
Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  That's  wot  Sam  says,"  confessed  Leatherhead,  becom 
ing  pensive. 

"  I'll  eat  the  supper  by-'n'-by,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  Set 
it  down  on  the  stand  by  the  winder.  Wot  time  is  it  ?" 

"Eight  o'clock." 

"  Good  Ian'  !  eight  o'clock  !    I  reckon  't  mus'  be,  though 


69 

I  hadn't  noticed  how  dark  'twas  gittin'.  Fetch  a  light, 
will  ye  ?  I'll  drink  the  tea.  It  '11  do  me  good.  I  hope 
it's  hot." 

"  Nothin'  but  a  light,  then  ?" 

"  D'  ye  use  candles  ?" 

"Mos'ly,  though  we've  got  one  lamp.  But  the  ile  's 
out." 

"  Fetch  a  lot  o'  candles,  then.  I  may  have  to  set  up  all 
night." 

"  Well,  tripe!  say,  now,  see  'ere,  that  'minds  me  ! — how 
is  she  ?  My  shape  !  She's  better,  ain't  she  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  she  don't  sense  nothin'  yit." 

"  Great  beeswax  !  She  don't  sense  nothin'  yit  ?  Say, 
she'll  git  's  bad  's  wot  I  be  if  she  keeps  on !  Sam  says  I 
don't  never  sense  nothin'.  But  I  kin  make  bread — can't 
I,  now  ?  Well,  say — tripe  !  But  ain't  it  kinder  funny 
she  don't  come  to  ?  She's  had  time." 

"  It  may  be  funny,  but  that  don't  make  it  none  the  less 
ser'ous.  She  got  jammed  up  agin  a  rock  V  her  head's 
bad." 

Leatherhead  was  subject  to  unaccountable  moods  of 
doubt.  One  of  them  assailed  him  now. 

"  Oh,  say  !"  was  its  way  of  expressing  itself.  "  Her  head 
bad?  Say!" 

She  nodded.  He  popped  his  eyes  at  her,  and,  as  if  that 
were  not  sufficient,  thrust  his  long  neck  in  her  direction, 
too.  "  Looks  like  his  soul  was  leavin'  his  body  V  startin' 
fer  me,"  thought  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  My  shape  !"  he  murmured.  "  Her  head's  bad  !"  And 
with  a  series  of  surprised  ejaculations  he  left  the  room. 

Sam  came  in,  and  together  he  and  Phoebe  Ellen  pre 
pared  and  placed  the  bandages.  He  was  very  quick  and 
skilful,  considering  how  big  his  hands  were. 

"  He  kin  do  anything  't  a  man  orter  know  how  to  do," 
she  thought,  with  admiration.  Once  or  twice  his  hand 
touched  hers  and  gave  her  a  sharp,  penetrating  thrill. 


70 

"  That's  a  funny  feeling"  she  thought,  with  surprise.  e£  I 
never  felt  nothin'  like  it  afore.  How  queer  it  'ud  be  if  I 
was  to  take  one  o'  his  hands  in  mine  V  hold  it  I"  But  she 
did  not  attempt  that.  What  if  he  should  draw  it  away  in 
anger  ?  What  if  he  should  laugh  at  her  ?  <e  He's  nicer  'n 
I  thort  he  was,  anyway/'  she  concluded,  still  watching 
Sam  at  his  task.  Then,  with  a  thrill  of  joyous  anticipa 
tion,  "  'N'  I'm  to  live  'ere  in  the  same  house  with  'im 
and  see  'im  every  day  \" 

The  patient  would  take  no  more  brandy,  but  Sam  and 
Phoebe  Ellen  rubbed  her  wrists  and  temples  and  applied 
all  the  other  means  of  restoration  that  lay  in  their  pow 
er.  She  reclined  among  her  pillows  with  her  eyes  light 
ly  closed,  motionless  except  for  the  regular,  stertorous 
breathing,  and  an  occasional  nervous  flutter  in  the  throat. 

After  a  long  time  Sam  spoke. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  she  acts,"  he  declared,  anxiously. 
' '  She  breathes  all  right,  she  looks  all  right,  but  they's 
suthin'  wrong.  She's  hurt  'way  inside.  She  orter  open 
'er  eyes.  I  never  knowed  o'  a  faintin'  fit  't  lasted  like 
this." 

Phoebe  Ellen  looked  from  him  to  the  patient  and  back 
again. 

"  Suthin'  is  wrong,"  she  admitted.  "  I  never  seen 
nothin'  like  it,  neither.  Tears  like  she  was  dead,  but 
kep'  on  breathin'.  They's  suthin'  horrid  'bout  it." 

"If  it's  struck  to  'er  brain  V  par'lyzed  it—"  He 
stopped  suddenly,  controlling  some  strong  emotion. 
Then  with  an  effort,  "  I've  heerd  o'  sech,  though  I  ain't 
never  seen  a  case.  If  that's  the  trouble,  she  orter  have  a 
doctor." 

"  A  doctor  !     Is  they  sech  a  thing  in  the  ken  try  ?" 

"They's  a  Boston  man  down  to  Halstead's — that's  four 
mile  b'low.  He's  queer — Halstead  says  he's  crazy,  but  I 
say  he's  's  sound  in  his  upper  story  's  I  be,  though  he's 
got  wild  ways.  He's  a  reg'lar  doctor,  though  he  had  to 


71 


give  up  his  practice  "count  o'  consumption.  He's  purty 
young,  but  he's  powerful  smart.  We  might  git  him." 

Phoebe  Ellen  considered. 

"  Mebbe  she'd  be  better  if  her  clo'es  was  took  off,  V  she 
was  put  to  bed  decent  V  comf'table.  S'pose  we  try  that 
fust.  If  that  don't  do,  we'll  see  'bout  the  doctor.  'N' 
I'll  keep  the  bandages  goin'." 

Sam  left  the  room,  and  Phoebe  Ellen  undressed  her 
sister  and  got  her  into  bed.  But  there  was  no  marked 
change.  A  little  more  color  grew  into  the  unconscious 
face,  and  a  more  natural  look  about  the  mouth  and  eyes. 
But  the  lids  did  not  unclose,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  re 
turning  consciousness.  Still  the  same  regular,  mechan 
ical  breathing,  as  if  the  functions  of  life  had  been  given 
over  to  a  machine  while  the  mind  slept. 

"  It's  the  queerest  thing,"  muttered  Phoebe  Ellen,  hov 
ering  about  the  bed. 

"Any  signs  fer  the  better?"  inquired  Sam,  entering 
and  approaching.  But  he  immediately  answered  his  own 
question.  "  She's  got  more  color,  her  face  don't  look  so 
drawn.  The  color's  a  good  sign  's  long  's  they  ain't  too 
much  o'  it."  Pie  lifted  one  limp  hand  and  laid  his  fingers 
on  the  pulse.  "  No  fever.  Pulse  reg'lar.  Not  too  fast 
nor  two  slow.  Queer  !  I  never  seen  the  like.  'N'  she 
ain't  showed  no  signs  o'  coming'  to  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  shook  her  head. 

"  She's  kep'  jes'  so.  I've  changed  the  bandages  every 
two-three  minutes.  They  don't  git  no  warmer  'n  's  if 
they'd  been  on  my  own  head  or  yourn.  I  don't  onder- 
stan'  it.  'Pears  like  I'd  ruther  have  bad  signs 't  I  knowed 
how  to  deal  with." 

"  They  can't  be  no  great  danger  's  long 's  the  fever  don't 
set  in.  Kin  I  look  at  the  bruise  wunst  more  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  removed  the  bandage  and  he  examined 
the  wound  with  critical  intentness. 

"  The  cut  ain't  nothin',"  he  declared.     "  She'll  git  over 


72 


that  in  a  few  days.  The  trouble's  deeper.  The  only  thing 
I  kin  think  of  is  't  mebbe  the  skull's  cracked  'if  's  press- 
in'  on  the  brain.  I  ain't  no  doctor  —  but  I  d'  know  wot 
else  to  make  o'  it." 

"  That  orter  be  ser'ous,"  said  Phcebe  Ellen,  after  a  mo 
ment's  thought. 

"Mighty  ser'ous,  if  I'm  right/'  assented  Sam. 

"  'W  we  orter  have  the  doctor  right  off  ?" 

"  I  should  say  so." 

"  Leatherhead  could  go  fer  'im  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  or  I  could,  either." 

"  Ye've  had  yer  supper  ?" 

"  All  I  want." 

"  Wot  time  is  it  ?" 

"'Bout  'leven." 

"  So  late  ?  Hadn't  we  better  wait  V  see  wot  happens 
by  mornin'?" 

Sam  went  gravely  into  his  own  thoughts  for  reasons  pro 
and  con. 

"Fer  her  sake,  no,"  he  finally  decided.  "She  orter 
be  looked  arter  right  off  if  it's  's  bad  's  I'm  beginnin'  to 
think.  These  things  ortn't  to  wait." 

He  had  evidently  not  finished,  and  she  did  not  inter 
rupt  him  during  a  second  meditative  pause. 

"  But  the  doctor,"  he  went  on.  "  I  was  thinkin'  o'  him. 
He's  a  sick  man,  V  he  goes  to  bed  reg'lar  at  half-past 
eight.  If  I  was  to  rout  'im  out  this  time  o'  night,  I  don't 
b'lieve  he'd  come  —  I  don't  b'lieve  he  could.  'N'  I  don't 
b'lieve  he  could  do  nothin'  if  he  did.  It  ud  break  'im  all 
up  —  his  nerves  is  bad.  Prob'ly  he'd  have  to  go  to  bed 
afore  he  could  'tend  to  'er,  anyhow." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  I  can't  see  wot  harm  ud  come  to  her  from  a  few  hours' 
waitin',  considerin'  the  state  she's  in.  They  don't  seem 
to  be  nothin'  'larmin'  'bout  'er.  She  breathes  like  she 
was  asleep.  If  the  fever  comes  up  it  '11  be  time  to  be 


73 

skcerd.  We  kin  watch  'er  keerful  durin'  the  night,  V 
Til  ride  over  to  Halstead's  fust  oft'  in  the  mornhr.  Hadn't 
ye  better  go  V  lay  down  yerself  ?  Ye  look  wore  out.  I 
kin  'ten7  to  7er." 

"  We'll  look  arter  'er  together,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen. 


CHAPTER   IX 

SAM  brought  some  pillows  from  the  bed  in  the  next 
room  and  made  Phoebe  Ellen  comfortable  in  the  hard  old 
wooden  rocking-chair  where  she  had  been  sitting.  Then 
he  wrapped  her  up  in  a  blanket  and  told  her  to  go  to 
sleep. 

"Til  look  arter  the  little  un,"  he  said,  assuringly. 

'"W  if  she  gits  wuss  ?" 

"I'll  wake  ye,  shore." 

She  watched  him  dreamily  till  her  eyes  began  to  close. 

"He's  a  nice  feller  when  I  ain't  tryin'  to  boss  ^im," 
was  her  last  hazy  thought.  "A  fust-rate  feller!  I'll 
never  try  to  put  my  thumb  on  top  o'  'im  agin." 

And  with  that  she  fell  asleep. 

She  awakened  at  intervals,  and  always  found  him  at 
his  post.  Sometimes  she  asked  a  question  or  two,  but 
mostly  she  looked  vaguely  about,  saw  that  all  was  well, 
and  silently  closed  her  eyes  once  more. 

So  the  night  wore  on.  She  was  more  weary  than  she 
knew,  and  often  she  awakened  with  a  feverish  start,  gasp 
ing  a  little  till  she  realized  the  strange  room,  the  pros 
trate  figure  on  the  bed,  and  Sam  Tinker  cooling  the 
bandages  in  the  tin  basin  and  replacing  them  with  a  deft 
ness  which  seemed  impossible  to  his  big  hands. 

"Any  change  ?"  she  once  asked,  after  it  had  fully  come 
over  her  where  she  was. 

"No." 

"No  fever?" 

"No." 

"  Still  breathin'  regular  ?" 

o  •» 


75 


"Like  a  clock." 

"'N'  'er  color 's  good  ?" 

"Jes' the  same." 

"Ain't  ye  gittin'  tired  ?" 

"Me?"  The  settled  solicitude  which  his  long  vigil 
had  stamped  upon  his  big  kind  face  gave  place  to  a  slow 
smile  which  was  a  sufficient  answer. 

"  Hadn't  ye  better  nap  a  bit  V  let  me  watch  ?" 

"  No  ;  take  yer  rest.  Ye'll  need  all  yer  strength  fer  to- 
morrer." 

She  was  still  agitated  by  a  vague  desire  for  his  com 
fort. 

"  Why  don't   ye   smoke  ?"    she   asked.      "  It  'ud   rest 

ye." 

"No  ;  we  mus'  keep  the  air  pure  fer  her." 
"  But  ye  could  take  a  nip  o'  brandy  now  'n'  then — " 
"  I've  been  a-doin'  that/'  said  Sam,  his  smile  dawning 
once  more  as  he  pointed  to  a  bottle  and  tumbler  on  the 
stand. 

She  would  not  have  believed  they  could  be  so  kind  to 
each  other — or,  rather,  she  would  not  have  believed  that 
they  could  ever  have  been  unkind  to  each  other.  That 
she  should  offer  to  relieve  him  at  his  vigil  and  that  he 
should  decline  on  the  ground  that  she  needed  rest  gave 
her  a  good,  contented  feeling  such  as  she  had  hardly 
known  since  childhood.  Didn't  she  hate  him,  after  all  ? 
Or  was  she  too  sleepy  to  know  ?  Or  had  the  hate  been 
only  a  dream  ?  Or  was  it  only  a  dream  that  she  was 
learning  to  think  of  him  as  gentle  and  kind  ?  Perhaps 
he,  too,  was  sorry  for  what  had  happened  during  the  day 
and  was  trying  to  make  up.  She  was  willing  to  make 
Up — nay?  eager  ;  she  wanted  to  be  good  friends.  Or 
perhaps  it  was  his  interest  in  Anny  that  made  him  so 
kind  ?  No  matter.  At  least,  he  was  good  to  her  now, 
and  in  the  future  there  would  be  time  enough  for  dis 
agreeable  contingencies.  It  was  well  to  sleep  and  leave 


76 

everything  in  such  strong,  competent  hands.  Poor 
Anny  !  What  an  entrance  upon  the  inheritance  brother 
Dan  had  left  her  !  What  if  she  were  to  die,  after  all  ? 
"She's  fit  to  die— she'd  go  to  heaven/5  Phoebe  Ellen 
thought.  Heaven — yes  ;  but  there  was  the  ranch.  If 
Anny  were  to  die  the  ranch  would  pass  into  the  hands  of 
the  next  of  kin,  of  course.  "'N'  I'm  the  next  o'  kin," 
reflected  Phoebe  Ellen.  Well,  wot  then  ?  Would  Sam 
Tinker  care  any  more  about  her  if  she  owned  the  place  ? 
Hardly.  He  had  taken  to  Anny  from  the  minute  he  saw 
her.  Phoebe  Ellen  did  not  mind  that  much  just  now — 
she  was  too  sleepy.  "I  wish 't  he  liked  me  best/' she 
thought;  "but  it's  his  own  bizness."  But  if  Anny 
were  to  die — and  then,  as  she  dozed  off,  she  remembered 
that  he  still  believed  she  was  Anny.  "Then  he  still 
thinks  I  own  the  ranch,"  was  her  last  definite  thought. 
"  No  ;  he  wouldn't  think  no  more  o'  me  if  I  reely  owned 
it.  Shall  I  tell  'im  the  truth  ?  I'm  so  sleepy — I'm 
shore  he'd  think  I  was  talkin'  in  my  sleep.  They'll  be 
time  'nongh  in  the  mornin'."  And  she  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  that  she  had  been  wandering  a  weary  way  though 
breakneck  paths  in  the  mountains,  carrying  something 
heavy ;  and  all  at  once  she  discovered  that  it  was  the 
ranch  Dan  had  left  to  Anny,  and  that  she  herself  was 
Anny,  or  people  thought  so  ;  but  she  did  not  explain, 
and  went  wandering  on,  determined  to  cling  to  her 
burden  even  if  the  weight  of  it  killed  her.  "  That  was 
a  funny  dream,"  she'  woke  up  long  enough  to  think. 
And  after  that  she  fell  asleep  without  inquiring  how 
Anny  was,  though  she  plainly  saw  Sam  replacing  the 
bandages,  and  wondered  to  herself  whether  there  was  any 
change  for  better  or  worse. 

At  five  o'clock  she  was  awakened  by  some  unusual 
noise  in  the  room.  She  opened  her  eyes  with  the  im 
pression  that  some  one  had  been  calling,  "Anny  !  Miss 
Anny  !" 


77 


"Was  ye  callin' — her?"  she  asked,  in  a  breathless  way, 
staring  up  at  Sam,  who  was  bending  over  her. 

He  smiled  faintly. 

"I  was  callin'  you,"  he  answered. 

' '  Oh  !"  she  murmured,  drawing  a  long  breath.  ' '  Things 
sound  so  queer  when  a  body's  jest  wakin'  up."  She  flung 
aside  her  blanket,  but  still  did  not  rise.  "  How  is  she  ?" 

"  No  change."     He  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"Queer,"  she  muttered.  Then  glancing  around,  "  Is  it 
mornin'  ?" 

"  Yes.  'W  I  reckon  I  better  be  makin'  fer  the  doctor. 
He'll  have  to  ride  slow." 

"  The  doctor  ?    Oh,  I  'member."     She  rubbed  her  eyes. 

"  Ye  won't  be  afeerd  to  stay  with  'er  ?" 

She  arose  hastily. 

"  Afeerd  ?     No.     Wot  should  I  be  afeerd  of  ?" 

Her  tone  was  resentful.  Did  he  imagine  she  had  com 
mitted  a  crime  against  her  sister  that  she  should  fear  to  be 
left  alone  with  her  ?  Her  dream  had  not  come  true,  even 
if  he  still  believed  her  to  be  Anny.  But  a  sense  of  guilt 
was  upon  her.  It  was  as  if  the  thought  had  made  the 
deed. 

Sam  did  not  notice  the  repudiation  of  fear  which  she 
was  so  deeply  conscious  of. 

"  She  looks  more  'n  ever  like  she  done  afore  she  got 
hurt,"  he  went  on.  "  The  same  pink  in  'er  cheeks,  'n'  'er 
lips  open  a  little.  It's  orfle  to  watch  'er  like  that  hour 
arter  hour,  knowin'  ye  can't  wake  'er  up." 

His  face  looked  worn  and  anxious.  She  realized  that 
the  strain  of  that  night  watch  must  have  been  considera 
ble  even  for  his  strength,  and  a  sense  of  gratitude  made 
her  prompt  to  relieve  him  and  ready  for  duty. 

"  Ye  orter  a-let  me  help  ye,"  she  said.  "  It  was  selfish 
o'  me  to  sleep  so  long." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  hastened  to  answer.  "  I 
was  glad  to  do  suthin'  fer  the  pore  little  thing." 


78 


Even  this  declaration  of  his  real  interest  had  no  effect 
in  rousing  her  jealousy.  At  least  he  had  been  kind  to  her 
in  being  kind  to  Army — had  intended  to  be  so,  in  fact. 
She  was  content  for  the  present  with  that.  "It's  bizness 
to  be  sat'fied  with  wot  ye  kin  git/'  she  thought.  "Besides, 
mebbe  I  kin  git  more — arter  a  while." 

"  Ye're  shore  ye're  wide  awake  ?"  he  inquired,  examin 
ing  her  with  his  slow  smile. 

Her  answering  look  was  pleasant  and  cordial. 

"Yes;  though  I  ain't  got  quite  shook  outyit.  I  reckon 
ye  better  git  started  '&  soon  's  ye  kin.  Where's  the  wash- 
dish  ?  A  little  cold  water  on  my  face  'n'  hands  '11  soon 
set  me  agoin'.  I'll  go  out  'n'  git  ye  some  breakfast,  if 
ye'll  show  me  which  way  the  cook-stove  is.  I  reckon  they's 
coffee  'n'  ham  'n'  eggs — " 

"  I've  had  my  breakfast — Leatherhead  got  it  fer  me  ;  'n' 
the  hosses  is  saddled  aroun'  by  the  verandy,  one  fer  me  'n' 
one  fer  the  doctor  to  ride  back  on.  Leatherhead  '11  be  in 
afore  long  to  see  wot  ye  want  fer  breakfast." 

"La!  It's  like  bein'  a  reel  lady,"  remarked  Phoebe 
Ellen. 

"He  tole  me  he  was  goin'  down  to  the  river  to  see  if 
they  was  a  trout  or  two  't  was  sufferin'  to  be  ketched. 
There  !  He's  comin'  back — hear  'irn  ?"  She  listened,  and 
could  distinguish  a  shrill,  unreliable  voice  above  the  wail 
ing  of  the  pines,  singing  "Every  day  '11  be  Sunday  by- 
and-by."  "He  was  orfle  cut  up  'bout  his  supper  yistid- 
dy,"  Sam  added. 

"I'm  shore  he  needn't  be."  Phoebe  Ellen  was  in  a 
kindly  mood  this  morning  and  full  of  acknowledgment. 
"I'm  obleeged  to  'im,  'n'  to  you,  too,  fer  takin'  thort  o' 
me." 

' '  Don't  mention  it,"  responded  Sam,  cordially.  And 
with  that  he  was  gone. 

She  heard  him  mount  his  horse  from  the  veranda,  but 
the  windows  of  the  bedroom  all  faced  in  another  direc- 


79 


tion  and  she  could  not  see.  But  presently  she  distin 
guished  him  galloping  away  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains 
among  the  pines.  The  led -horse  had  evidently  been 
trained  to  that  service,  for  he  galloped  neck  and  neck 
with  Sam's,  keeping  loose  the  strap  by  which  the  giant 
held  him. 

"Prob'ly  he  trained  it/' she  thought.  "Dan  useter 
write  how  he  broke  'em  in,  even  the  wust  o'  'em."  She 
followed  rider  and  horses  as  far  as  she  could  among  the 
shadows.  "I  wonder  wot  the  doctor  '11  be  like?  'N' 
wot  '11  he  have  to  say  'bout  sis  ?" 

She  turned  back  into  the  room  and  approached  the  bed. 
Anny  lay  on  her  back  in  precisely  the  position  she  had 
occupied  ever  since  respiration  recommenced — perfectly 
passive,  without  other  movement  than  the  regular  rise 
and  fall  of  the  chest.  The  pretty,  womanly  profile  stood 
out  clearly  against  the  pillows,  and,  though  the  candle 
was  burning  low  and  the  light  outside  was  too  feeble  to  be 
of  much  assistance  in  taking  impressions,  she  could  see 
the  long  lashes  curving  back  where  they  seemed  to  touch 
the  cheek,  and  two  or  three  little  wrinkles  about  the  chin 
where  the  head  was  thrust  downward  and  forward,  not 
quite  easily.  Phoebe  Ellen  had  often  seen  her  asleep  and 
looking  just  so  when  she  had  awakened  early  at  home  in 
Nebraska  and  had  lain  for  a  few  moments  idly  gazing 
about  before  getting  up.  "She  ain't  agoin'  to  die,"  said 
she  to  herself.  "  She's  agoin'  to  git  well."  But  beneath 
the  thought  lay  a  horrible  hope  which  had  somehow  fast 
ened  itself  upon  her  during  the  night.  "  Shell  git  well," 
she  repeated  over  and  over.  But  it  was  the  same  as  if  she 
had  said,  "She'll  die— I  hope  she'll  die  !" 

The  face  was  unchanged  ;  and  what  had  happened  that 
might  have  altered  it  as  Phoebe  Ellen  had  half  expected  ? 
Nothing,  to  be  sure.  The  accident  was  nothing,  of  course ; 
she  would  be  entirely  recovered  in  a  few  days — a  fortnight 
at  most.  Was  the  change  in  Phoebe  Ellen  herself  ?  Did 


she  want  her  sister  different,  to  correspond  with  a  differ 
ence  in  her  own  soul  ?  She  did  not  stop  to  think,  but 
kept  her  eyes  riveted  upon  the  pretty,  unconscious  face. 
The  same  flush,  as  of  healthy  sleep,  the  same  soft  curve 
of  the  chin,  retreating  to  the  still  softer  outline  of  the 
throat,  where  the  collar  of  the  night-dress  hid  it ;  the 
,  same  egg-like  roundness  of  the  cheek,  the  same  faint  dis- 
colorations  under  the  eyes,  the  same  little  curls,  pushing, 
tendril-like,  in  front  of  the  small  ears  and  softening  the 
meeting  of  hair  and  forehead.  Phoebe  Ellen  remembered 
them  all,  yet  she  went  over  them  in  detail,  as  if  she  had 
never  seen  them  before. 

"She's  a  purty  gal,"  she  thought.  "'N'  her  eyes  is 
purty,  too,  when  they're  open.  She's  got  daddy's  eyes. 
Mine's  like  mother's.  They're  both  dead,  daddy  'n' 
mother.  But  sis  'n'  me  's  got  their  eyes." 

She  propped  her  elbow  against  the  headboard,  thrust 
her  chin  into  her  hand,  and  stood  gazing  down. 

"  Dan  had  daddy's  eyes,  too,"  her  thoughts  ran  on. 
"  Dan  'n'  Anny  was  alike — that's  why  he  willed  the  ranch 
to  her  'n'  left  me  out.  He  allus  liked  her  best,  even  when 
we  was  little  uns.  He  useter  give  her  things,  V  when  I'd 
ast  fer  some,  he'd  say  he  wouldn't,  'cause  he  didn't  like 
me.  He  was  allus  partial,  Dan  was.  He'd  do  anything 
fer  her.  But  he  allus  left  me  out." 

She  shifted  her  position  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  but 
without  taking  her  elbow  down  or  her  chin  from  her 
hand. 

"  My  temper's  like  mother's,  too.  'N'  she  wa'ri't  's  easy 
's  wot  dad  was,  but  she  had  lots  o'  vim  'n'  go.  I  wouldn't 
change — not  if  I  could.  Change  !"  She  drew  herself  up 
with  a  mental  jerk.  "Why  should  I  want  to  change  ?  I 
kin  manage  sis,  'n'  even  if  she  owns  everything,  she'll  do 
jes'  wot  I  tell  'er.  I  kin  run  this  ranch  jes'  like  I  owned 
it.  'N'  so  Dan  didn't  git  ahead  o'  me,  arter  all.  Well, 
that's  all  right !" 


81 

She  stood  erect,  with  her  eyes  still  fastened  upon  her 
sister.  After  a  strangely  intent  examination  of  the  placid 
features,  she  said,  aloud  : 

"Yes,  she's  purty.  We  look  alike — everybody  says  so. 
But  somehow  she's  purty  'n'  I  ain't. " 

She  removed  the  bandage,  rinsed  it  out  in  cold  Avater 
and  replaced  it. 

"He  thort  she  was  purty — I  could  tell  by  the  way  he 
looked  at  'er.  'W  he  made  shore  I  was  the  devil.  \Vell, 
that's  all  right,  too  !" 

Her  face  was  not  pleasant  as  she  turned  away  and  went 
to  the  window.  She  looked  out  absently  down  the  valley, 
then  up  at  the  pine-clad  foot-hills.  The  sun  was  not  yet 
visible  except  on  the  eastern  heights  and  along  the  farther 
side  of  the  valley.  Here  and  there,  too,  a  transverse  bar 
of  light  lay  flat  and  shining  across  the  bottoms  where  a 
gulch  or  pass  faced  the  hidden  sun  ;  elsewhere  the  low 
lands  lay  in  shadow — such  cool,  green  shadows,  so  rest 
ful,  so  chaste,  looking  as  if  the  dew  clung  to  them,  and 
might  be  brushed  off  by  a  stray  breeze  or  the  wing  of  a 
passing  bird.  Some  scattered  clouds  swung  mistily  about 
the  summits,  billowing  lightly  as  the  wind  touched  them, 
but  settling  back  as  if  too  lazy  either  to  sink  or  rise.  The 
pines  looked  black  and  flat  —  as  if  the  trees  themselves 
had  disappeared  and  their  vertical  shadows  had  grown 
into  their  place.  The  only  sound  was  the  noise  of  the 
river  and  the  faint,  harp-like  symphony  of  the  pines. 

So  fast  the  sun  rose  that  Phoebe  Ellen  could  almost  see 
the  zone  of  light  widen  down  the  eastern  slopes.  The 
ground  was  uneven  up  there,  and  as  the  light  appeared  the 
shadows  of  rocks  and  trees  lay  in  a  black  tangle,  and  to 
follow  them  in  detail  made  one  half  believe  that  the  sun 
was  shining  from  all  directions  at  once.  Phoebe  Ellen 
opened  her  window  and  leaned  out.  The  fragrance  of 
mountain-sage  with  the  dew  upon  it  rushed  into  her  face, 
wholesome  and  pungent  and  good  to  smell. 


She  drew  in  a  long  breath.  "It  '11  make  me  hungry," 
she  thought.  "I  want  to  be  hungry — I  want  to  eat  well 
'n'  be  strong,  so  't  I  kin  keep  my  wits  about  me.  Queer 
things  is  goin'  to  happen.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones.  I'll 
need  to  have  my  wits  about  me." 

Two  or  three  cowboys  who  had  evidently  slept  in  one 
of  the  barns  strolled  with  yawns  and  eye-rubbings  in  the 
direction  of  the  kitchen. 

"  Leatherhead  's  gittin'  breakfast  fer  'em,"  she  thought. 
"It  mus'  be  'bout  ready."  And  at  that  moment  the 
cook's  voice  rose  in  song : 

"  '  Oh,  dig  my  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 

Wide  and  deep  ! 
Place  tombstones  at  my  head  and  feet, 

Head  and  feet  ! 

And  on  my  breast  carve  a  turtle-dove, 
To  signify  I  died  of  love  !' " 

"Died  o'  love  !"  thought  Phoebe  Ellen,  scornfully. 
Then,  suddenly  directing  her  attention  outside  the  window 
once  more : 

"This  is  a  purty  place,"  she  mused.  "I  like  it — it's 
a  heap  better  'n  I'm  used  to.  He  likes  it,  too.  He 
wouldn't  like  me  no  more  'n  he  does,  though,  if  I  owned 
it.  No;  fer  he  thort  I  owned  it  —  he  thinks  so  still. 
Well,  he  don't  keer  fer  me,  V  he  does  fer  sis — that's  how 
'tis.  He  was  nice  to  me  las'  night  'n'  this  mornin',  though. 
I  have  a  idee  he  likes  a  soft,  gentle  temper  in  a  gal.  Could 
I  ever  turn  soft  V  gentle,  I  wonder  ?  Wot  rot !"  She 
shook  herself  as  if  to  cast  aside  the  thought.  "  This  ain't 
bizness !"  She  drew  back  into  the  room,  leaving  the 
window  open.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  her  sister.  "Every 
thing  's  come  her  way,"  her  thoughts  ran  on.  "  She's 
purty,  she's  rich,  he  keers  fer  'er.  Well,  wot's  the  differ  ? 
I've  got  all  the  brains  't  was  put  into  the  fambly,  V  I'll 
know  how  to  use  'em,  too,  when  the  time  comes  !" 


83 


And  she  went  back  to  the  bed  and  changed  the  bandages 
once  more. 

Some  one  knocked. 

"  Come  in  !"  she  called,  and  Leatherhead's  surprised 
face  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Mornin',"  was  his  greeting.  His  little  round  eyes 
sought  the  bed  anxiously.  "I  made  shore  I  wouldn't 
fergit  my  manners  this  time,  so  —  tripe  !  ain't  she  no 
better  ?" 

"  Jes'  the  same,"  was  Phcebe  Ellen's  answer. 

tf  Great  my!"  he  murmured,  in  feeble  surprise.  "  I  reck 
oned  she'd  be  up  'n'  all  over  the  ranch  this  mornin'.  Wot 
d'  ye  reckon's  struck  'er  ?" 

"  Sam's  gone  fer  the  doctor.     He'll  know." 

"  Oh  yes — well,  o'  course  ;  though  I  wouldn't  let  that 
doctor  look  arter  me  agin,  I  kin  tell  ye  that !  Suthin'  was 
wrong  with  raj  stummick  two  or  three  weeks  ago,  'n'  say  ! 
the  way  his  med'cine  went  a-cavortin'  aroun'  in  there  ! — 
well !  I  never  was  s'prised  so  deep  down.  But,  my  size  ! 
say,  how  long  ye  been  up  ?" 

"'Bout  a  hour." 

"Well,  tripe!  if  I'd  V  knowed  that  I'd  V  had  yer 
breakfas'  fer  ye  long  afore  this.  A  hour  I  Why  didn't 
ye  call  me  ?  A  hour  !  'LI  ye  have  it  fetched  in  'ere  ? 
'D  ye  eat  wot  I  fetched  to  ye  las'  night  ?" 

"Ye  kin  see."  Phoebe  Ellen  swept  her  hand  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  demolished  lunch. 

"  Well,  say,  now,  jes'  'tween  you  V  I,  how'd  ye  like  the 
bread  ?  Sam  says  I'm  too  big  a  fool  to  go  out  on  the 
range,  but  he  owns  up  I  kin  make  bread.  My  ole  dad 
useter  say  't  God  sends  the  vittles  'n'  the  devil  sends  the 
cooks  ;  but  I  want  to  tell  ye  't  God  sends  "em  both  on  this 
ranch — see  ?" 

"I'll  be  out  in  a  minute,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen.  "'S  it 
ready  ?" 

He  nodded,  bulging  his  little  eyes.     "D'  ye  dare  to 


84 


leave  her?"  He  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
bed. 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  couldn't  leave  'er,  o'  course.  I  reckoned 
ve  might  stay  with  'er  yerself.  Ye  wouldn't  have  to  do 
nothin'  but  change  the  bandages  wunst  or  twicet." 

Leatherhead's  jaw  fell  and  a  slow  palor  overspread  his 
features. 

"  Me  ?  Tripe  !  Change  bandages  ?  Sufferin'  Moses  ! 
On  a  gal  ?  That's  where  I  draw  the  line  !  Bandages  on 
a  gal  ?  Ye'll  take  yer  breakfas'  'ere  !" 

And  he  disappeared  behind  a  slam  of  the  door. 

He  was  back  in  a  moment,  bearing  Phoebe  Ellen's  break 
fast  on  a  kneading-board  for  a  tray,  and  after  depositing 
it  on  the  stand  by  the  window  he  stood  off  and  contem 
plated  her  in  an  agitated  way. 

"  There  !  Tripe  !  I  ain't  mad  nor  nothin' — I  don't 
want  no  spikes  to  chaw.  But  lookee  'ere,  I  swear  to  gum  I 
couldn't  change  them  bandages — I  couldn't,  ye  know  !  If 
it  was  a  man  —  well,  that 'ud  be  all  right.  But  a  gal! 
I'm  willin'  to  do  wot  I'm  told,  but  tripe  !  in  this  country 
a  feller's  got  to  draw  the  line." 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  who  was  in  a 
good-humor — and  hungry.  It  was  as  if  a  guilty  thought 
had  determined  her  to  do  at  least  a  superficial  kindness. 
"  Well,  wot  a  trout  this  is,  to  be  shore !  This  is  suthin' 
like  livin'.  D'  ye  like  to  cook  ?  I  should  think  ye  would, 
ye  do  it  s'  well."  Leatherhead  still  lingered,  and  she 
could  think  of  nothing  but  the  breakfast  to  talk  about. 

"Like  it  ?  No.  But  I  reckon  it's  better  'n  nothin'. 
I'd  a  heap  ruther  be  out  on  the  range  with  the  boys,  racin' 
up  the  foot-hills  lickety-split  with  a  buckin'  bronco  under 
me  X  a  snortin'  steer  to  the  front.  Say,  that's  life  !  But 
every  time  I  mention  it  Sam  sets  down  on  me  with  a  loud 
smile  all  over  his  face.  I  don't  keer  !  The  time  '11  come 
yit.  'N'  say  !  Don't  say  a  word  'bout  it  to  a  livin'  soul — 
but  I've  got  a  sombrero  'n'  a  cuert  'n'  a  lasso  all  stowed 


85 


away  in  the  loft  over  the  kitchen  ;  'n'  all  I  lack  's  some 
shaps  V  a  gun — V  won't  I  s'prise  the  nation  ?  Oh  no  ! 
They'll  jes'  say  it's  a  or'nary  every-day  matter — mebbe  they 
will  !  But  o'  course  I  was  got  fer  a  cook,  V  they've  allus 
done  the  square  by  me — Dan  and  Sam  both — though  Sam 
does  sometimes  act  like  he  had  the  hull  world  by  the  tail. 
Well,  tripe  !  Folks  has  dif'rent  ways — that's  how  'tis." 

"These  'ere  sody  biscuit/'  remarked  Phoabe  Ellen,  "is 
fit  fer  the  Gov'nor  of  Nebrasky ;  I'll  say  that  fer  'em. 
Ye'll  have  to  show  me  how  ye  do  it.  They're  better  'n  / 
kin  make." 

"  Tripe  !  D'  ye  mean  it  ?  Say  !  I'll  show  ye  joyful. 
It's  the  way  I  put  the  short'nin'  in — that's  wot  'tis.  When 
d'  ye  want  to  try  ?" 

"When  sis  gits  better,  so  't  I  have  time.  'N'  then  I 
mean  to  do  the  cookin'  myself.  'JSP  that  '11  let  ye  out  on 
the  range." 

Leatherhead  really  turned  pale  with  joy  for  a  moment. 
Then  his  face  fell. 

"Oh,  say  !"  he  objected.  "It's  Irish  to  give  a  feller 
the  Josh  like  that !" 

"  No  Joshm',"  declared  Phoebe  Ellen,  opening  another 
biscuit.  She  could  not  have  told  why  she  wanted  to  be 
kind  to  Leatherhead.  Perhaps  a  sense  of  inward  guilt 
made  her  long  for  outward  approval. 

"  Tripe  !"  began  the  roustabout,  flinging  his  arms  and 
feet  about  in  noisy  ecstasy.  "  Sam  says  I  couldn't  ride  a 
saw-hoss,  he  does  ;  but  say  !  when  I  git  my  shaps  'n'  som 
brero  on,  if  I  don't  show  ?im  !  But  it's  a  sure  thing — 
hey  ?  My  shape  !  Well,  see  'ere !  If  ye  let  me  out  on 
the  range — " 

"I  hear  hosses,"  interrupted  Phoebe  Ellen. 

Leatherhead  listened. 

"  So  d'  I,  'n'  I  bet  that  'ere  consumptive  doctor  '11  feel 
faint  arter  poundin'  the  saddle  with  that  skeleton  o'  his'n 
all  the  way  from  Halstead's.  Say,  I  can't  stay  'n'  look  on 


8G 


while  lie  'xamines  'er !  But  ye'll  keep  yer  word  'bout  the 
cookin'  jes'  the  same,  won't  ye  ?  I  hate  to  see  a  doctor 
pawin'  over  a  patient ;  'n'  a  gal,  too — that's  where  ye  have 
me  queer.  But  'twon't  make  no  dif'rence  with  the  cook- 
in',  hey  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  assured  him  that  his  presence  at  the  ex 
amination  was  unnecessary. 

"  Mebbe  the  doctor  'ud  like  a  cup  o'  coffee,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"  Tripe  !  That's  so,"  was  Leatherhead's  way  of  assent 
ing.  And  he  banged  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  X 

PHCEBE  ELLEN*  waited  at  the  window,  looking  away  ab 
sently  at  the  pines.  They  stood  stiffly  out  against  the  un 
even  slope  of  the  mountain,  and  caught  sharp  gray  high 
lights  along  the  upper  side  of  their  branches  where  the 
needles  reached  up  in  prickly  irregularity.  Here  and 
there  gorgeous  vetches  shook  out  their  barbarous  colors 
in  the  sunshine  and  the  yucca  lifted  its  slender  pyramid 
of  waxen  bells.  The  river  wound  away  in  the  distance, 
sending  a  silvery  flash  from  among  its  willows.  The  fa 
miliar  sounds  about  the  barns  came  as  if  from  a  distance ; 
the  roosters  might  have  been  crowing  from  the  mountain- 
tops  ;  the  lowing  of  a  heifer  might  have  come  from  be 
yond  the  horizon. 

"It's  beautiful,"  she  thought,  her  eyes  following  the 
river  and  the  foot-hills.  Then,  after  a  moment,  "  But  it 
belongs  to  her." 

She  tapped  her  foot  impatiently  on  the  bare  floor. 

"  0'  course  HI  run  it — she  never  could.  But  it  '11  Vlong 
to  'er." 

She  turned  to  the  bed  with  an  unconscious  scowl. 

"Everything  b'longs  to  'er.  Why  does  the  idee  haunt 
me  so  ?" 

She  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Even  lie  belongs  to  'er.  That's  plain  'nough  to  be 
seen.  The  way  he  looks  at  'er,  the  way  he  hangs  over  'er, 
the  way  he  touches  her  hair  when  he  changes  the  band 
ages — it  ain't  a  thing  't  kin  be  mistook.  'N'  I — well,  if 
they  was  to  marry,  where'd  I  be  ?  I  wouldn't  even  be 
'lowed  to  run  the  ranch.  It  ud  be  handed  over  to  him." 


88 


She  approached  the  bed,  and  gazed  down  at  its  occu 
pant. 

"  If  she  was  to  die — " 

She  steadied  herself  against  the  head -board,  and  gazed 
deliberately. 

"  If  she  was  to  die—"' 

She  had  uttered  the  words  aloud,  and  found  herself 
clapping  her  hands  to  her  mouth  and  staring  about  with 
guilty  fear.  But  no  one  was  visible — no  one  had  heard. 
Then  her  thoughts  began  to  justify  themselves  in  a  frantic 
mental  protest. 

"They  ain't  no  sin  in  the  idee  o'  'er  dyin'.  I  made 
shore  yistiddy  't  she  was  dead — so  'd  everybody.  'Tain't 
no  sin  to  think  o'  'er  bein'  dead.  'N'  it  ud  be  better  fer 
me  if  she  was  dead — it  would,  it  would  !  Fve  got  a  right 
to  think  o'  that.  Fer  then  the  ranch  ud  be  mine — the 
ranch  'n'  everything  on  it  —  the  cattle  'n'  crops  '11'  the 
management.  Nothin'  could  alter  that.  Whether  Sam 
Tinker  got  so  he  keered  fer  me  or  not,  nothin'  could  alter 
that." 

She  clasped  her  hands  at  arm's-length,  then  wrenched 
them  apart. 

"  If  we  hadn't  fussed  over  'er  so  long — if  she'd  V  died — 
if  I'd  V  let  'er  die  stiddier  workin'  over  'er  like  I  done,  V 
urgin'  Sam  to  work,  too — I'd  be  the  owner  o'  the  Thomp 
son  ranch  this  mornin',  stiddier  stan'in'  'ere  with  the  pros- 
peck  o'  playin'  second  fiddle  all  my  days  !" 

Her  features  tightened  and  paled,  her  lips  flattened 
against  her  teeth  in  unconscious  expression  of  a  wicked 
longing. 

Then  a  dreadful  possibility  came  into  her  mind.  "I 
could  kill  her,"  she  thought.  But  she  thrust  the  idea 
back  so  quickly  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  it  never  had 
occurred  to  her. 

"  I  won't — I  won't  think  o'  it !"  her  soul  cried  out  in 
terror.  "I  don't  want  nothin'  on  earth  bad  'nough  to 


89 

pay  that  price  fer  it !  I'd  sooner  have  nothin'  all  the  days 
o'  my  life  'n  do  sech  a  thing  !" 

She  went  back  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  pressing 
her  cheek  against  the  casing. 

"Rut  it  could  be  done."  The  thought  finished  itself 
as  inevitably  as  she  finished  her  breath  after  drawing  it 
in.  "  '1ST  nobody  'd  ever  know." 

She  wrenched  herself  back  into  her  ordinary  course  of 
thought  as  one  wrenches  himself  awake  from  a  night 
mare. 

' '  It  takes  that  doctor  a  long  time  to  finish  a  cup  o'  cof 
fee."  She  uttered  the  words  aloud,  the  more  effectu 
ally  to  divert  her  mind  from  its  horrid  vagaries.  "  But 
mebbe  he  took  a  biscuit,  too.  'N'  a  trout.  I  wonder  if 
Leatherhead  ketched  more  'n  one  trout.  Mine  was  pow 
erful  good — I  hope  if  the  doctor's  got  one  it's  's  good  's 
wot  mine  was." 

She  busied  herself  feverishly  with  irrelevant  details  of 
her  imagination  lest  she  should  look  guilty  when  Sam  and 
the  stranger  came  in. 

"  I  reckon  he's  a  thin  man.  I  wonder  why  I  reckon 
he's  thin.  Oh  yes,  I  'member — he's  a  consumptive,  'n' 
consumptives  is  allus  thin.  Like  's  not  he's  got  sharp 
eyes.  I  hate  little  sharp  eyes  't  pry  into  everything. 
He'll  jes'  look  at  sis,  though — he  won't  take  no  notice  o' 
me.  Why  should  he  ?  I  ain't  done  nothin'  to  be  'cused 
of.  She's  his  patient — he  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  me. 
But  if  Sam  was  to  interduce  me  as  the  heiress,  he'd  look 
at  me  then,  shore ;  'n'  I  couldn't  'splain  it  here — it  ud 
look  like  I'd  been  deceivin',  'N'  I  hain't."  The  assur 
ance  was  genuine,  and  she  seized  upon,  it  with  an  eager 
ness  which  was  almost  fierce.  "I  hain't  tried  to  cheat 
nobody  'bout  who  I  be.  Somehow  they  got  it  wrong  from 
the  start — Pinky,  'n'  Sam,  V  all  o'  em — 'n'  I  hain't  had  no 
chance  to  set  it  right.  That  ain't  my  fault.  But  I 
couldn't  'splain  afore  the  doctor.  '1ST  wot  ud  Sam  think  if 


90 


I  kep'  still  V  'splained  afterwards  ?  Oh,  I  reckon  I  could 
git  out  o'  it  somehow.  I  might  say  I  hadn't  noticed — but 
that  ud  be  rather  thin.  Or  the  truth — why  wouldn't  the 
truth  do  better  ?  It  ud  sound  more  sensible."  She  stif 
fened  herself,  pushing  away  from  the  wall.  "  If  she  was 
to  die—" 

Still  that  dreadful,  recurring  thought ! 

"  If  she  was  to  die,  'twouldn't  make  no  differ,  one  way 
or  the  other.  It  ud  let  me  out  o'  'splainin'  entirely,  fer  I 
could  pass  off  fer  her,  V  nobody  ud  know.  Ud  I  dare  to 
do  it  ?  Dare !  Where's  the  danger  ?  Everybody  'ere 
thinks  I'm  my  sister,  'n'  who's  to  tell  'em  dif'rent  ?  Pinky 
thinks  so,  V  Sam,  V  all  o'  em.  'N'  I  hain't  no  brother 
nor  sister  to  show  up  V  expose  me.  'N'  nobody  from 
Nebrasky  '11  ever  git 's  fur  from  home  's  this.  It  ud  save 
a  heap  o?  lawin'  jes'  to  call  myself  Annie,  too."  Phoebe 
Ellen  had  the  superstitious  dread  of  an  ignorant  woman 
for  the  law.  "  Fm  the  next  o'  kin,  anyway.  It  ud  only 
be  steppin'  into  my  own  afore  the  lawyers  said  I  might. 
'W  it  ud  save  expenses.  The  lawyers  ud  take  the  hull 
thing,  like 's  not,  if  I  waited  fer  my  rights  to  come  through 
them — they  would  if  they  could.  'ISP  mebbe  the  law  in 
this  State  's  queer.  Mebbe  Cousin  Susan  ud  come  in  fer  a 
share,  V  Uncle  Parker.  If  sis  was  to  die — " 

She  flung  up  her  hands  with  a  movement  either  of  re 
sentment  towards  her  sister  or  horror  towards  herself. 

"  If  she  was  to  die,  that  ud  settle  the  hull  bizness  fer- 
ever  !" 

She  started  guiltily  as  steps  were  heard  on  the  uncar- 
peted  floor  of  the  next  room. 

( '  They're  comin'  !"  she  whispered  to  herself.  "  If  she 
was  to  die  natural,  it  ud  be  better."  She  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  face  in  a  little  square  mirror  on  the  wall,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  she  kept  from  crying  out.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  her  eyes  were  gleaming.  Her  features  were 
drawn  in  hard,  wicked  lines.  "  Good  God  !"  she  thought, 


91 

with  horror.  "Be  I  a-murderin'  my  own  sister  in  my 
mind  ?  AVot/s  come  over  me  all  to  wunst  ?  Is  it  the 
devil  ?"  She  deliberately  faced  the  image  in  the  glass. 
"  The  doctor  '11  know  whether  she's  goin'  to  live  or  die," 
she  concluded,  the  lines  in  her  face  hardening  still  more. 

She  turned  away  in  haste  and  began  to  work  about  the 
bed,  arranging  the  covering  feverishly  and  beating  the 
pillows  into  softness  about  the  helpless  head.  The  door 
opened  and  Sam  came  in.  She  faced  him,  flushed  with 
her  guilty  thoughts. 

"He  don't  notice,"  she  pondered,  thankfully. 

His  eyes  had  sought  the  bed  with  unconcealed  anxiety. 

"  How  is  she  ?"  he  asked.  And  she  answered,  in  a  voice 
more  steady  than  his  : 

"No  change.     Everything  jes'  the  same." 

In  the  doorway  beyond  Sam  appeared  a  man  of  not 
more  than  twenty  -  eight,  thin,  of  medium  height,  with 
heavy,  straight  black  hair  parted  near  the  middle  of  his 
forehead  and  forming  a  sort  of  thatch  about  the  temples. 
His  nose  was  long  and  slightly  hooked ;  one  could  not 
help  noticing  the  thin,  sensitive  nostrils,  which  expanded 
with  every  inhalation  as  if  the  lungs  worked  with  diffi 
culty.  There  was  a  pronounced  stoop  in  the  shoulders, 
and  the  chest  looked  sunken  and  inadequate.  His  appear 
ance  was  that  of  a  hopeless  invalid,  every  nerve  of  whose 
body  was  on  the  strain,  and  might  be  set  quivering  at  a 
word  or  look. 

"  This  'ere  's  Dr.  Sedgwick,"  said  Sam.  "  Dr.  Sedg- 
wick,  this  is  Miss  Thompson."  Sam  moved  his  big  hands 
awkwardly,  as  if  to  point  them  out  to  each  other.  He  was 
never  at  ease  in  any  sort  of  formality. 

The  flush  died  out  of  Phoebe  Ellen's  face,  and  she  made 
her  bow  in  due  form.  Miss  Thompson  might  mean  either 
herself  or  Anny ;  so  nothing  of  a  compromising  nature 
had  transpired  as  yet. 

"  Fm  turble  anxious  'bout  my  sister,"  she  began,  more 


volubly  than  was  necessary.  She  found  herself  pulling  at 
the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  dropped  it  hastily.  This 
doctor  had  the  most  remarkable  eyes  !  "I  reckon  Sam's 
told  ye  all  'bout  'er,"  she  went  on.  "  The  accident,  I 
mean."  Why  did  he  look  at  her  so  closely  ?  She  folded 
her  arms  at  her  wrists,  and  held  them  close  lest  her  in 
ward  trembling  should  become  visible.  When  she  spoke 
again  her  voice  sounded  steady  enough  to  her  own  ears, 
but  it  was  pitched  high.  "  She's  been  jes'  like  this  ever 
sence  we  got  'er  breath  agoin'.  'N'  sech  a  time  's  we  had 
— we  made  shore  she  was  dead.  'W  when  she  begun  to 
swoller  the  brandy — oh,  but  wasn't  we  thankful  ?  But 
this — to  stay  like  this  s'  long,  it  seems  powerful  queer  !" 

The  doctor  passed  his  eyes  rapidly  over  the  patient,  laid 
his  hand  on  her  temple — such  a  thin,  helpless,  stealthy 
hand  ! — then  felt  her  pulse. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  sitting  down,  I  hope  ?"  he  in 
quired,  looking  back  at  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  I'm  short  of 
breath,  and  not  at  all  strong." 

Sam  hastened  to  bring  a  chair,  and  placed  it  at  the  head 
of  the  bed.  The  doctor  seated  himself  without  removing 
his  eyes  from  Phoebe  Ellen's  face,  and  still  retaining  the 
hand  of  the  patient  in  his. 

"  It  is  a  sad  home-coming  for  you,  Miss  Thompson," 
he  said,  in  a  voice  whose  huskiness  seemed  to  originate  in 
the  lungs. 

"  I  was  dretful  scared,"  Phoebe  Ellen  managed  to  say. 

"  Such  an  accident  at  such  a  time  was  particularly  try 
ing,"  he  went  on,  between  short,  audible  breaths.  "  And 
not  to  be  able  to  do  anything — you  must  have  felt  it 
keenly."  The  words  were  simple  enough — rather  inane, 
in  fact — but  his  eyes  charged  them  with  a  mysterious 
meaning. 

"  We  done  the  best  we  knowed  how,"  Phoebe  Ellen  ar 
ticulated.  She  was  clutching  her  wrists  with  both  hands 
till  the  nails  ached. 


93 

"I  can  understand  the  extent  of  your  suffering/' he 

said.  Did  he  speak  ironically  ?  She  felt  the  flush  come 
back  and  burn  hotly  in  her  cheeks  and  brows. 

"  It's  a  dretful  home-coming  as  ye  say/'  she  stammered,, 
unable  to  meet  his  eyes  and  lowering  her  own  to  his  shirt- 
front.  "  What  shall  I  do — what  shall  I  do  ?"  she  began 
to  repeat  to  herself,  hysterically. 

"  She  has  always  been  well  ?"  continued  the  doctor, 
holding  Anny's  wrist.  The  words  were  commonplace 
enough,  but  the  look  and  tone  which  accompanied  them 
seemed  to  take  cognizance  of  all  the  wickedness  her 
thoughts  had  revealed  to  her  that  morning. 

"  Yes/'  she  answered.  Why  didn't  Sam  say  something 
to  help  her  ?  Or  didn't  he  notice  ? 

"  Never  ill  in  her  life  ?" 

"Never." 

She  felt  her  orbits  narrowing  before  his  as  before  a 
growing  flame.  She  had  never  seen  such  eyes  before — or 
was  it  that  her  own  conscience  exaggerated  everything  ? 
Conscience  !  She  had  never  before  experienced  anything 
like  this.  Besides,  she  had  not  done  anything.  She 
had  thought  wrong  things,  but  what  of  that  ?  One  can't 
always  be  master  of  his  thoughts.  She  had  done  nothing 
out  of  the  way.  The  deed — which  she  could  not  think 
of  as  but  an  echo  of  the  thought — had  not  yet  been  com 
mitted  and  never  would  be. 

The  doctor,  still  riveting  his  eyes  upon  her  as  if  he 
were  reading  the  hidden  characters  of  her  soul,  passed 
his  hand  lightly  up  the  patient's  arm.  The  movement 
reminded  her  of  the  soft,  tentative  efforts  of  a  cat  to  pick 
its  way  among  wet  grasses.  She  watched,  fascinated, 
still  unable  to  brave  him  by  a  direct  look.  The  slim, 
stealthy  hand  reached  Anny's  shoulder ;  then  the  sensitive 
fingers  moved  up  the  neck,  past  the  ear,  touching  the  hair 
lightly  on  the  way  till  they  reached  the  bandage,  and,  as 
if  guided  by  a  vision  of  their  own,  began  rapidly  to  undo 


94 


the  cloth.     There  was  something  horrible  in  it  all — Phoebe 
Ellen  could  have  screamed. 

"ShaVt  I  help  ye  ?"  she  managed  to  gasp.  "It  ain't 
fixed  on-tight  !" 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,"  he  answered,  with  a  singular 
smile.  "  I  can  find  my  way." 

Would  he  succeed  in  reading  that  dreadful  thought 
which  had  come  into  her  head  this  morning  ?  She  could 
feel  a  luminous  shaft  from  his  eyes  slanting  across  the 
darkened  recesses  of  her  brain,  and  revealing  —  what  ? 
"He'll  find  it— he'll  find  it  I"  she  thought,  with  horror. 
"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

His  presence  was  becoming  unbearable.  She  had  sunk 
into  a  chair,  but  now  she  rose  to  her  feet,  pale  as  a  ghost. 
He  did  not  seem  to  notice  anything  unusual  in  her  face 
or  manner. 

"You  are  the  owner  of  one  of  the  richest  ranches  in 
the  State,  Miss  Thompson,"  he  said.  The  husky,  insin 
uating  tones  made  the  simple  statement  an  accusation. 
She  propped  herself  against  the  wall,  half  turning  away, 
and  feeling  faint  and  sick  from  very  helplessness.  Sam 
had  told  him  that  she  was  the  heiress,  then  ;  or,  worse 
still,  had  he  read  the  truth  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  and 
was  he  trying  to  torture  her  ?  She  opened  her  mouth  to 
assert  her  true  individuality  once  for  all,  but  before  she 
could  utter  a  word  the  dreadful  voice  went  on : 

"  One  of  the  richest  and  loveliest  ranches  in  Colorado. 
You  are  to  be  congratulated  !  If  I  were  to  have  my  choice 
among  all  the  cattle  ranges  I  have  seen  in  the  State,  I 
should  certainly  give  this  the  preference." 

By  this  time  his  bloodless  fingers  had  found  the  injured 
spot  on  Anny's  head,  and  he  was  manipulating  it  gently, 
with  his  eyes  still  riveted  to  Phoebe  Ellen's. 

"Is  they  any  inflammation  ?"  Sam  inquired. 

The  inquiry  came  as  a  godsend  to  Phoebe  Ellen.  In 
another  moment  she  would  have  cried  out  and  confessed 


95 

everything.  But  at  the  sound  of  Sam's  voice  the  doctor 
shifted  his  gaze  to  the  patient,  and  she  had  a  moment  in 
which  to  recover. 

"  No,"  was  his  answer,  delivered  after  a  pause,  during 
which  his  eyes  and  fingers  were  working  in  unison. 

"  I  made  shore  they  wa'n't,"  said  Sam,  with  a  breath  of 
relief,  "or  Fd  'a'  been  arter  ye  las'  night." 

Phoebe  Ellen  felt  her  strength  returning.  If  he  had 
found  her  out,  at  least  there  was  to  be  no  exposure  at 
present.  The  tension  of  her  mind  being  thus  sud 
denly  relaxed,  she  was  left  gasping.  She  felt  as  if 
she  must  go  away  out  of  that  man's  sight,  if  only  for  a 
moment.  The  strain  of  utter  helplessness  made  her 
weak  and  tremulous.  She  could  never  fully  recover  in 
his  presence. 

"If  ye  don't  need  me,  I  reckon  I  better  go  out  fer  a 
little,"  she  said.  ' '  I — I  feel  sorter  faint.  'N'  I  feel  like 
I  couldn't  stan'  it  to  see  the  lamination  go  on.  If  ye 
need  me,  I'll  come  back." 

And  she  fled  from  the  room  as  if  followed  by  missiles. 
That  man  !  Was  he  the  Evil  One  ? 

"  Somehow  he's  the  master  o'  me,"  she  thought,  closing 
the  door  harshly  and  hanging  to  the  knob  as  if  she  ex 
pected  to  feel  him  wrenching  it  from  her  grasp  on  the 
other  side.  "  Does  he  know  ?  He  can't  know  !" 

"She's  nervous,"  she  heard  Sam  saying  in  explanation 
to  the  doctor.  "  I  made  shore  she  wa'n't  the  kind  to  git 
so  knocked  out.  She  don't  look  it." 

"No  ?"  the  doctor's  thin  voice  questioned,  vaguely. 

"  Ye  orter  'a'  seen  'er  las'  night.  She  stood  up  to  it  like 
a  barn  door,  she  did.  Nothin'  fazed  'er.  She  looked  like 
she  was  ekal  to  anything." 

"She  seems  to  me  to  be  keyed  rather  high,"  remarked 
the  doctor.  "  You  never  can  tell  what  these  high-strung 
women  will  do  when  brought  to  the  pinch." 

The  words  seemed  to  carry  with  them  a  knowledge  of 


her  guilty  plans  and  hopes.     Did  he  know  that  she  was 
listening,  and  did  he  intend  that  she  should  hear  ? 

"  He'll  git  the  truth  out  o'  me  yit,  if  he  hain't  already," 
was  her  last  agonized  thought  as  she  turned  from  the 
door.  "  'W  then  he'll  tell  it  to  Sam  V  everybody  !" 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHE  sped  noiselessly  across  the  room  and  out  upon  the 
veranda.  The  wind  refreshed  her,  blowing  in  aromatic 
gusts  from  the  piny  heights  all  about.  She  opened  her 
mouth  the  better  to  inhale  it ;  she  turned  her  face  tow 
ards  it,  to  feel  its  touch  more  definitely  cool  on  cheek  and 
forehead.  She  shivered  as  a  thrill  of  reviving  strength 
passed  through  her — an  ecstatic  shiver,  which  somehow 
assured  her  of  herself.  Half  a  dozen  chipmunks  were  vis 
ible,  some  peering  out  from  their  hiding-places  with  shy, 
wild  eyes,  others  staring  with  a  saucy  challenge  of  her 
right  to  pass.  One  chattered  a  shrill  protest  as  she  moved 
in  his  direction,  but  scurried  off  under  the  shadow  of  his 
violently  agitated  tail  as  she  gave  no  sign  of  heeding  his 
objection ;  another  leaped  headlong  down  a  group  of 
rocks  as  if  to  show  her  the  superiority  of  squirrel  athletics 
over  those  of  men  ;  another  stood  immobile  on  his  hind- 
legs,  with  his  forefeet  crossed  devoutly,  and  his  queer, 
bright  face  half  bowed.  Phoebe  Ellen  went  down  the 
veranda  steps  and  the  animals  scattered  in  all  directions, 
but  paused  at  a  little  distance  to  peer  out  at  her  from 
their  hiding-places  among  the  rocks  and  question  her  in 
tentions  with  sharp,  impotent  barkings.  She  went  up  the 
hill  a  little  way,  over  a  carpet  of  pine-needles,  which  felt 
soft  and  elastic,  and  yielded  a  pleasant  perfume  of  its  own 
under  her  tread.  The  soft  gray  of  the  mountain-sage  was 
all  dewy ;  can  you  imagine  what  a  mist  would  be  like, 
stuck  thick  with  pendent  diamonds  ?  That  would  pass 
for  mountain-sage  with  the  dew  on  it,  but  would  seem  a 
feeble  substitute  to  one  who  is  acquainted  with  the  real 


thing.  Where  the  pines  were  sparse  and  the  sun  fell 
warm,  purple  penstemons  brightened  the  slope  ;  and  the 
Mariposa  lily — which  God  must  love  especially,  it  is  so 
beautiful — looked  as  if  it  had  been  dropped  from  above 
instead  of  having  pushed  its  way  up  through  the  hard, 
dry  soil. 

Usually  Phoebe  Ellen  noticed  little  of  these  things,  but 
this  morning  it  was  inevitable  that  something  of  the  peace 
and  beauty  of  the  world  should  steal  into  her  heart  by 
contrast  with  her  recent  agitation,  and  bring  it  in  a  meas 
ure  into  harmony  with  the  tender  stoicism  of  her  sur 
roundings.  It  was  as  if  the  flowers  and  trees  said,  "  The 
world  is  beautiful ;  there  is  no  place  for  ugliness  in  the 
good,  bright  world."  The  birds  uttered  optimistic  noises  ; 
the  water  seemed  to  take  nothing  into  account  but  the 
joy  of  its  own  movement  and  music.  She  did  not  under 
stand  it,  but  she  grew  calm ;  and  to  natures  like  hers  a 
return  of  calmness  means  a  return  of  self-assurance. 

"  Wot  a  fool  I  was  !"  she  thought.  "I- wonder  wot  got 
a  hold  o'  me,  anyhow  ?  Was  I  afeerd  o'  'im  ?  Bah  !  I 
could  face  the  devil  if  I  had  bizness  with  'im — I've  allus 
prided  myself  o7  that ;  V  to  throw  up  the  sponge  at  sight 
o'  a  little  consumptive  doctor  from  Boston  !  It  was  queer, 
though,  the  way  he  looked  at  me.  But,  la  !  the  way  I 
took  it  wa'n't  bizness-like  nohow.  They  ain't  nothin'  in 
life  but  bizness — wot's  the  use  o'  makin'  out  he  was  tryin' 
to  read  wot  was  goin'  on  inside  o'  me  ?  It  was  his  way 
o'  findin'  out  wot  was  the  matter  o'  sis — he  was  'tendin'  to 
his  bizness  a  heap-sight  better  'n  I  was.  But  I'll  show 
'im  when  I  go  back  't  I  kin  'tend  to  bizness,  too.  I  was 
nervous  —  think  o'  me  bein'  nervous  !  But  he  didn't 
s'pect  nothin'.  How  could  he  ?  I've  heerd  o'  folks  bein' 
hypnoozed,  but  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  it — they  ain't  no 
sech  thing  ;  but  if  he's  try  in'  it  on  —  well,  I'll  show  'im  ! 
'N'  if  he  did  read  wot  I  was  thinkin'  of,  how  could  he 
prove  it  ?  Oh,  Lord,  yes,  I  was  wrong  to  think  o'  the 


dreadful  thing  I  did  —  killin'  yer  own  sister  ain't  good 
sense — it  ain't  bizness-like,  fer  ye're  likely  to  git  ketched 
at  it;  but  that's  over."  She  shuddered  slightly.  "I'll 
never  go  back  to  that,  Fll  never  think  o'  it  agin.  I  must 
V  been  crazy  to  cal'late  on  that  way  o'  gittin'  the  ranch 
into  my  han's.  But  if  they  was  some  other  way — if  she 
was  to  die  a  nat'ral  death,  'n'  I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't, 
bein'  how  she  hangs  on  so  'thout  eatin'  or  drinkin'  or  comin' 
to  'erself — then  the  hull  bizness'ud  be  mine,  'n'  no  harm 
done  to  nobody  V  lots  o'  good  to  myself.  'N'  wot  'ud  be 
the  differ  if  I'd  let  'em  keep  right  on  callin'  me  Anny  ? 
None,  fer  I'm  the  next  o'  kin ;  'n'  I  know  she  ain't  made 
no  will,  so  I  orter  have  the  proputty ;  but  the  law's  a  queer, 
unjust  thing,  'n'  it  might  cut  the  ranch  into  little  bits  V 
hunt  up  relations  all  over  God's  country  'n'  Kansas  be 
sides,  jes'  to  have  some  un  to  give  my  land  to.  No  ;  if 
she  dies  I'll  hold  my  tongue  —  that's  my  line.  'N' the 
doctor  don't  know — I  don't  b'lieve  in  mind-readin'  V  sech. 
I  was  nervous,  that's  all ;  V  I  feel  strong  'nough  to  face 
'im  now.  But  if  he  brings  Anny  to  her  senses — " 

She  considered  a  moment,  then  shut  her  lips  tight. 

"I'll  jes'  have  to  plead  't  I  was  too  shook  up  to  notice 
't  they  was  mistakin'  me  fer  her.  They  can't  prove  't  I'm 
lyin'  nohow,  though  they  may  s'pect  me. " 

She  started  slowly  back  to  the  house.  In  the  kitchen 
Leatherhead  was  singing  in  a  high,  flat  voice,  which  spread 
strangely  in  the  air  and  reached  her  ear  like  an  echo  gone 

crazy  : 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  oh,  my  darling, 

Oh,  my  darling  Clementine  ! 

Thou  art  lost  and  gone  forever, 

Dreffle  sony,  Clementine  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  listened  with  a  sense  of  strength  com 
pletely  restored.  The  words  and  music  were  atrocious, 
but  the  state  of  mind  which  prompted  the  singer  was 
healthy  and  human.  And  that  was  what  she  needed. 


100 

Ever  since  awakening  this  morning  she  had  felt  weak, 
flaccid  of  will,  altogether  unlike  herself,  and  had  been 
wandering  about  in  an  atmosphere  of  superstitious  dread 
which  stifled  her,  but  from  which  she  could  not  get  away. 
She  needed  to  have  it  impressed  upon  her  that  the  world 
was  going  on  in  its  old  course,  that  folly  was  rampant  the 
same  as  hitherto,  and  that  the  dreadful  thought  of  murder 
which  had  come  into  her  head,  together  with  the  possi 
bility  of  mind -reading  on  the  part  of  the  doctor,  were 
nightmares  from  which  it  was  possible  fully  to  awake. 
There  was  exhilaration  in  the  assurance  that  these  dream- 
fancies  were  not  realities,  and  that  there  was  still  healthy 
absurdity  in  the  world. 

She  ascended  the  veranda  with  a  firm  step,  carrying  her 
head  well  up.  There  was  self-assertion  in  the  swing  of 
her  shoulders  and  in  the  force  with  which  she  brought 
her  feet  down.  She  had  never  felt  her  will-power  more 
vigorously  active,  more  able  to  assert  and  maintain  her 
large  sense  of  personal  claims.  She  did  not  pause  to 
listen  at  Anny's  door  before  knocking,  as  she  would  cer 
tainly  have  done  had  she  still  been  in  the  state  of  feeble 
volition  in  which  she  had  left  the  house.  She  knocked  at 
once  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knob,  ready  to  enter 
without  flush  of  cheek  or  droop  of  eyelid  on  receiving  the 
signal  that  they  were  ready  for  her. 

"  Come,"  Sam's  voice  called  out,  and  she  entered  with 
head  erect  and  eyes  wide  open  on  the  group  which  pre 
sented  itself  by  the  bed.  She  liked  the  sound  of  her 
heels  beating  the  uncarpeted  floor  with  a  sharp,  incisive 
rhythm,  like  the  audible  voice  of  her  newly  aroused  will. 
She  liked  the  sense  of  dilation  in  her  nostrils,  through 
which  the  breath  flowed  steadily  to  her  lungs,  filling  them 
as  with  an  assurance  that  her  voice  would  not  fail  her 
when  she  had  occasion  to  speak. 

The  doctor  had  finished  his  examination.  The  band 
ages  had  been  restored  to  their  proper  place  and  deftly 


101 

fastened  with  a  pin  which  took  the  dull  glitter  of  a  half- 
light  in  the  semi-dusk  of  the  room.  He  was  sitting  where 
she  had  left  him,  but  turned  sidewise  in  an  attitude  of  idle 
ease,  his  right  elhow  propped  against  the  back  of  his  chair 
and  his  cheek  in  his  palm. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  her  with  that 
deliberate  intentness  which  had  so  shaken  her  at  their 
first  meeting.  But  there  was  a  stronger  confidence  in  his 
glance  than  before — the  fatal  certainty  of  diving  further 
into  her  thoughts  and  bringing  up  handfuls  of  mud  from 
the  very  bottom  in  proof  of  his  exploit.  She  recognized 
his  self-assurance  in  a  flash,  and  for  an  instant  the  same 
thrill  of  fear  passed  through  her — the  same  sense  of  help 
lessness  as  before  something  supernatural,  the  same  dis 
position  to  wring  her  hands  and  cry  out,  "  What  shall  I 
do  ?"  while  she  let  him  have  his  way.  She  felt  as  if 
she  were  about  to  be  searched,  probed,  turned  inside- 
out  for  his  inspection;  but  even  in  this  state  of  momen 
tary  yielding  she  felt  her  will  rising  as  it  were  in  the 
distance  with  a  strong,  voluminous  rush  which  seemed 
to  carry  a  roar  with  it.  It  touched  her,  lifted  her,  bore 
her  out  of  his  reach,  swung  her  in  exultant  freedom, 
poised,  triumphant,  mistress  of  herself.  She  wanted  to 
laugh  out,  but  even  here  her  self-control  was  manifest, 
for  she  restrained  the  impulse  and  gave  him  stare  for 
stare. 

"Well  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone  of  cool  inquiry. 

A  shade  of  perplexity  came  into  his  face,  and  his  glance 
became  less  penetrating,  stopping  at  her  eyes. 

"  Your  walk  has  done  you  good,"  he  remarked. 

His  look  seemed  trying  to  feel  its  way  once  more  into 
her  mind;  but  whereas  he  had  at  first  found  her  weak  and 
unprepared,  she  now  knew  her  danger  and  was  on  her 
guard.  Her  will  rose  like  a  stone  wall  between  him  and 
what  she  had  to  conceal.  She  felt  it  with  a  triumphant 
scorn  which  still  wanted  to  manifest  itself  in  a  laugh. 


102 

But  again  she  suppressed  the  inclination  and  stood  look 
ing  clown  at  him  with  masterful  gravity. 

"  I  'ain't  been  sick,"  she  answered.  She  felt  an  irre 
sistible  joy  in  the  evenness  of  her  tones.  "  Wot  have  ye 
made  out  'bout  my  sister  ?" 

He  shifted  his  position  slightly. 

"  You  were  pale — pale  when  you  left  the  room,"  he  de 
clared.  "  You  looked  as  if  you,  too,  were  about  to  be  ill. 
But  now—" 

"  I  feel  ekal  to  anything  now,"  she  retorted,  still  grave 
ly  defiant.  "  Wot  'bout  my  sister  ?" 

He  leaned  forward,  fetching  his  thin  hands  together  be 
tween  his  knees  and  wringing  the  fingers  hard. 

"Equal  to  anything?"  he  faltered. 

"  To  anything,"  she  repeated,  grimly.  "  To  the  devil 
hisself.  Wot  'bout  my  sister  ?" 

' '  Ah  !"  said  Dr.  Sedgwick,  removing  his  eyes  from  her 
face,  and  again  she  wanted  to  laugh.  What  a  fool  she  had 
been  to  fear  him  earlier  in  the  morning  ! 

Sam  was  looking  at  her.  (i  Why  won't  he  tell  me  'bout 
my  sister  ?"  she  asked  him.  "  D'  you  know  ?  Tell  me 
wot  he  thinks." 

But  Sam  turned  away. 

"He'll  do  it,"  he  answered.  "I  can't."  She  saw  that 
he  was  wiping  his  eyes  on  the  back  of  his  huge  hand. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  ?"  she  demanded,  sharply.  Was 
Anny  dead  ?  No.  She  could  see  the  steady  rise  and  fall 
of  the  chest,  the  flutter  of  the  breath  in  the  white  throat. 

"Wot's  the  matter?"  she  repeated, turning  to  the  doc 
tor.  "  Is — is  she  goin'  to  die  ?" 

"I  haven't  made  out  much," he  answered,  without  look 
ing  at  her.  "  Her  brain  has  been  injured,  but  it  is  im 
possible  to  say  how  seriously." 

"  She'll  live,  though  ?" 

The  question  came  with  bated  breath,  but  even  in  her 
suspense  Phoebe  Ellen  was  sufficiently  mistress  of  her- 


103 


self  to  interpret  her  anxiety  from  the  doctor's  point  of 
view. 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  live  to  be  an  old 
woman." 

Her  long-drawn  breath — not  a  breath  of  relief — brought 
the  doctor's  eyes  back  to  hers.  But  she  was  completely 
on  her  guard  and  met  them  boldly. 

"  Then  wot's  the  mystery  ?  Wot's  the  matter  with 
Sam  ?  Why  d'  ye  go  beatin'  roun'  the  bush  like  they  was 
suthin'  to  be  kep'  from  me  ?" 

"  Nothing  is  to  be  kept  from  you.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  your  sister's  skull  is  fractured  and  that  a  con 
siderable  tract  of  brain  is  pressed  upon  by  the  injured 
bone." 

"  That's  wot  Sam  made  shore  of,"  commented  Phoebe 
Ellen,  jerking  her  head  in  the  cowboy's  direction. 

The  doctor  nodded  gravely. 

'"W  that's  all  ye  made  out  ?"  Phoebe  Ellen's  restored 
self-confidence  was  manifesting  itself  in  a  slight  lifting  of 
her  chin. 

"All," he  answered. 

"  'W  you  a  doctor  !"  Her  thin  lips  curled.  "  I'll  go  to 
Sam  fust,  nex'  time." 

Certainly  she  was  paying  him  out  for  the  agitation  he 
had  caused  her  at  their  first  meeting.  She  enjoyed  the 
look  of  baffled  scrutiny  which  he  darted  upon  her  and 
the  tone  of  deprecation  in  which  he  began  : 

"  These  cases  are  all  extremely  obscure,  and  their  re 
sults  highly  problematic.  In  the  present  instance — " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply  : 

"  Wot  be  ye  goin'  to  do  ?    Let  'er  lay  there  V  die  ?" 

He  was  evidently  nettled,  and  his  eyes  wandered  over 
her  face  without  fastening  themselves  upon  any  particular 
feature. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done — " 

"'N'  ye  can't  give  'er  nothin'  to  bring  'er  to  ?" 


104 


"Nothing." 

"  Bah  !"  She  turned  away  with  a  fling  of  her  shoulder 
in  his  direction.  "  I  wouldn't  let  ye  doctor  a  sick  cat  fer 
me  !  Wot  be  ye  a  doctor  fer,  anyhow  ?" 

A  flush  of  irritation  settled  on  his  high  cheek-bones. 

"Nature  must  take  her  course/'  he  said,  in  a  hoarse, 
tremulous  voice.  "Everything  has  been  done  that  is 
possible.  Keep  up  the  bandages — " 

"  That's  wot  Sam  advised,"  she  remarked. 

"Use  plenty  of  cold  water — " 

"  Any  fool  could  tell  that !  Keep  up  the  bandages,  use 
plenty  o'  cold  water,  V  let  'er  lay  there  till  'er  breath 

stops  i" 

After  she  had  finished  the  fear  crossed  her  mind  that 
he  might  turn  to  her  and  ask,  "  Is  that  what  you  want — 
that  her  breath  should  stop  ?"  But  the  flush  under  his 
eyes  increased  and  his  voice  became  more  deprecative  as 
he  said  : 

"  She  won't  die — I  can  assure  you  of  that.  She  will 
wake  up  by-and-by — " 

"By-'n'-by?" 

"  In  a  day  or  two — " 

"  Good  Lord  I" 

"  Maybe  longer." 

"  But— but  she'll  starve  !" 

"No,  she'll  eat,  though  she'll  not  be  conscious  of  it 
any  more  than  she  is  at  this  moment  conscious  of  breath 
ing.  Leatherhead  is  preparing  some  beef-tea  for  her  now. 
And  you  are  to  bathe  her  twice  a  day  in  brandy." 

Phoebe  Ellen's  breath  came  hard  between  her  teeth. 

"Then  she'll  come  to  herself—" 

"  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  How  !     Ye  said  she'd  wake  up,  didn't  ye  ?" 

"  Yes.     But  that  is  a  very  different  thing." 

She  had  closed  her  mouth  tight  now,  and  her  nostrils 
swelled  as  the  breath  rushed  through. 


105 


"  I  don't  understand/7  she  said,  fixing  her  eyes  on  his 
as  if  to  dare  him  to  say  his  worst. 

The  doctor  paused  an  instant  before  he  explained. 

"  Your  sister  will  probably  never  be  in  her  right  mind 
again." 


CHAPTER  XII 

PHCEBE  ELLEN"  sank  into  a  chair  as  if  felled  by  a  blow. 
Since  the  accident  she  had  measured  many  probabilities, 
outlined  many  catastrophes,  imagined  many  complications, 
but  never  anything  like  this.  She  had  based  her  schemes 
on  the  assurance  that  Anny  would  die,  or,  if  she  got  well, 
could  be  hoodwinked  into  the  belief  that  no  exchange  of 
identities  had  been  intended ;  but  that  there  might  be  a 
mean  between  the  extremes  of  dying  and  getting  well — 
that  the  girl  might  live,  but  remain  an  idiot  the  rest  of 
her  life — was  as  remote  from  Phoebe  Ellen's  calculations  as 
the  question  of  her  own  possible  insanity ;  and  the  reve 
lation  left  her,  as  it  Avere,  among  the  ruins  of  her  plans. 
All  the  logic  of  her  wickedness  seemed  to  go  for  naught, 
and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  discovered, 
as  if  she  would  have  to  explain.  The  arithmetic  of  con 
tingencies  was  difficult  for  her  at  all  times,  and  now  she 
could  not  think  what  this  new  emergency  might  mean  to 
her  future.  With  all  her  plottings  she  was  at  bottom 
strangely  simple  and  sincere — one  of  those  natures  whose 
depths  are  like  little  pools  over  which  a  current  from  the 
shallows  flows  and  affords  hardly  more  opportunity  for 
concealment  than  the  shallows  themselves. 

"I — I  don't  think  I  onderstanV she  faltered,  in  a  trem 
ulous  voice.  "  Ye  said — " 

The  dreadful,  mesmeric  eyes  wavered  and  shifted  in  her 
direction  ;  they  fixed  themselves  upon  her  consciousness 
and  burned  in.  Imagine  two  flames  with  a  will  and  pur 
pose  of  their  own,  eager  to  take  advantage  of  one's  weak 
ness,  greedy  for  insight ! 


107 


"  I  said  that  your  sister  would  probably  never  be  in  her 
right  mind  again,"  he  repeated,  distinctly. 

"  Great  God  !"  was  her  involuntary  ejaculation. 

The  cry  was  not  so  much  one  of  horror  for  her  sister's 
calamity  as  of  personal  dread  for  this  man,  who  was  de 
termined  to  wrest  her  secret  from  her  by  the  aid  of  the 
devil  himself  if  need  were.  She  closed  her  eyes  against 
his  with  the  instinct  of  a  hunted  thing  for  conceal 
ment. 

But  she  felt  that  she  must  say  something,  and  like  one 
in  a  dream  she  made  the  effort. 

"Not  in  her  right  mind  ?"  The  question  had  a  dazed 
sound,  and  she  still  kept  her  lids  closed. 

Only  for  a  moment.  Then  again  the  weird  power  of 
the  doctor's  eyes  came  like  a  threat  across  her  conscious 
ness — a  power  like  prying  and  thrusting  and  digging  in 
forbidden  places.  The  secretive  corners  of  Phoebe  Ellen's 
mind  were  always  open  to  inspection  except  when  her  will, 
with  a  tremendous  effort,  drew  a  veil  over  her  thoughts 
and  held  it  close  at  all  four  corners  in  hysterical  dread  of 
revealing  what  was  stowed  away  behind  it.  Now  she  felt 
his  eyes,  like  search-lights,  exploring  the  very  recesses  of 
her  soul.  At  present  they  sent  only  random  flashes  here 
and  there — tentative,  bright  circles  falling  upon  thoughts 
which  it  mattered  little  if  she  revealed,  and  resting  there 
only  long  enough  to  determine  that  they  were  not  what 
he  wanted  to  find.  But  the  horrid  illumination  was  draw 
ing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  guilty  hopes  which  she  had 
packed  away  in  her  thoughts  since  yesterday,  and  which 
it  would  be  death  to  have  his  gaze  touch  even  in  outline. 
Nearer  and  nearer ;  she  felt  it  with  a  helplessness  which 
might  have  manifested  itself  in  a  shriek  ;  in  a  moment  it 
would  lay  all  her  guilty  secret  bare.  Then  with  a  nervous 
shiver  which  made  her  feel  as  if  cold  iron  had  touched 
her,  she  remembered  that  Sam  was  in  the  room,  that  pos 
sibly  he  could  help  her.  She  roused  herself  with  a  night- 


108 


mare  effort,  half  unclosing  her  eyes  and  wrenching  them 
in  his  direction. 

••  Sam — Sam  I"  she  articulated,  in  a  suffocating  voice. 

In  an  instant  the  cowboy  was  at  her  side. 

"Why,  ye're  sick,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in 
his. 

The  touch  revived  her. 

"  Don't  leave  me  I"  she  pleaded,  hysterically. 

"  No,"  he  assured  her. 

She  caught  her  breath  and  laughed  brokenly. 

"Wot  a  fool  I  be  !"  she  managed  to  say.  "  But  I'll  be 
better  in  a  minute."  She  clutched  his  hands  more  tight 
ly.  "  He  tole  ye  that  afore  I  come  in  ?"  she  asked,  as  if 
requiring  his  evidence  before  being  convinced  of  what  the 
doctor  had  said. 

"  'Bout— 'bout  how  she'll  wake  up  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"'N'yeb'lieve'im?" 

In  the  effort  of  questioning,  her  strength  was  coming 
back.  The  doctor's  eyes  were  upon  her  still,  crossing  her 
own  and  blinding  her,  but  their  illuminated  circle  was 
narrowing,  their  glare  was  shrinking  to  a  phosphorescent 
glow  which  she  would  presently  be  able  to  face  and  defy. 
The  thought  seemed  to  mark  a  sort  of  ebb-tide  in  his 
power,  while  her  own  strength  rose  higher  and  higher. 

' i  B'lieve  'im  ?"  Sam  repeated,  in  a  choked  voice.  "  How 
kin  I  help  it  ?  He  knows." 

"Wot  be  ye  cryin'  'bout?"  she  asked.  Then  with  a 
sudden  remembrance,  "  Queer  't  I  couldn't  think,  wa'n't 
it  ?  My  pore  sister  !  A  fool  ?  It's  silly  to  talk  like  that !" 

"He  knows,"  repeated  Sam,  jerking  his  head  in  the 
doctor's  direction. 

By  this  time  she  had  regained  control  of  her  will,  so  that 
she  was  able  to  calculate  the  effect  of  her  next  speech. 

"  The  doctors  kin  guess,  but  only  God  A'mighty  knows," 


109 

she  said,  and  her  voice  had  grown  stronger.  Then  she 
spoke  quite  naturally.  ' '  Not  in  'er  right  mind  ?  Sis  not 
in  'er  right  mind  ?  Sam,  Sam,  that's  a  fearful  thing  !" 

Sam  had  to  gulp  down  something  before  he  was  able  to 
speak. 

"  Pore  little  gal  \"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  stuck  in  his 
throat.  "  Pore,  pore  little  gal  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  looked  the  doctor  over  from  head  to  foot 
with  her  old  defiance. 

"Know?  He  know?  He  don't  know  nothin'.  I 
wouldn't  take  'is  word  'bout  a  sick  cat 't  b'longed  to  my 
wust  enemy."  Her  lip  curled  with  scorn  even  while  she 
began  a  new  set  of  calculations  on  the  basis  of  Anny's 
idiocy.  "If  she  should  turn  out  a  shore-'nough  fool,  I 
might  keep  the  ranch  in  'er  name  jes'  like  she  was  dead 
'n'  nobody  'd  ever  know  the  differ/'  she  was  thinking. 

Then  she  heard  Sam  speaking  again.  His  voice  was 
clearer,  but  he  kept  his  face  averted. 

"We'll  have  to  take  'is  word,"  he  said,  hollowly,  "any 
ways,  till  we  kin  see  for  ourselves.  Wot  do  we  know, 
eitljer  ?  We  don't  even  know  't  we  don't  know.  'N'  the 
little  gal — God  kelp  'er,  I  say — so  there  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  said  nothing  for  a  long  moment,  during 
which  she  was  preparing  to  face  the  doctor  once  more. 
She  could  not  measure  him  except  when  she  was  staring 
straight  at  him,  and  she  dreaded  that  he  might  beat  down 
her  eyes  with  the  complete  self-confidence  of  his  own. 
Out  of  his  direct  range  of  vision  she  was  not  altogether 
mistress  of  herself,  but  in  spite  of  her  fear  she  was  con 
scious  of  a  potential  mastery  in  her  rising  will  which 
would  crush  him  utterly.  Then  with  a  sudden  sideward 
sweep  of  her  thin  shoulders,  as  full  of  self-assertion  as  her 
highest  ambition  could  have  pictured,  she  faced  him  with 
wide-eyed  defiance,  and  her  voice  came  from  full  lungs  as 
she  said : 

"  Ye  mustn't  mind  wot  I  say,  doctor."    Her  words  were 


110 

so  widely  at  variance  with  her  manner  that  Dr.  Sedgwick 
stared  at  her  helplessly,  then  dropped  his  glance  to  his 
hands,  which  he  began  to  twist  together  in  his  peculiar 
nervous  way.  Phoebe  Ellen  understood  her  advantage 
and  went  on  exultingly  :  "  Fm  put  out,  naturally,  V  don't 
jes'  sense  wot  Fm  doin'.  But  ye  can't  tell  fer  shore  jes' 
yit  how  sis  '11  turn  out  ?" 

He  looked  back  at  her,  and  she  waited  for  his  answer 
without  flinching,  presenting  a  fixed,  dreadless  face  to  his 
examination.  It  was  strange  how  slight  she  felt  his 
mental  aggression  when  she  had  her  wits  about  her  and 
faced  him  with  her  will  alert.  What  a  fool  she  had  been, 
not  to  be  prepared  for  anything  in  the  way  of  news  about 
Anny's  case ;  to  be  taken  off  guard  and  to  let  her  surprise 
give  him  an  advantage  over  her  which  would  encourage 
him  to  future  efforts.  She  saw  that  she  had  baffled  him 
now  and  that  he  was  conscious  of  defeat.  The  assurance 
gave  her  a  thrill  of  triumphant  joy  which  was  intensified 
by  a  growing  confidence  in  her  ability  to  guard  against 
future  surprise.  This  man  suspected  her  of  something — 
had  read  the  fact  of  her  guilt,  though  the  vagueness  o|  its 
outlines  had  baffled  him  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  desist 
with  nothing  more  detailed  than  a  general  assumption. 

"  Ye  can't  tell  fer  shore,  then  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  Not  till  she  awakens,"  was  the  answer. 

And  her  retort  was  ready  on  her  lips  : 

"Wot  good  o'  tellin'  us  then?  We  kin  see  fer  our 
selves  !" 

But  he  hardly  seemed  to  notice.  He  looked  broken  and 
utterly  weary,  as  if  he  had  been  tried  beyond  his  strength. 
lie  had  a  habit  of  allowing  his  eyes  to  wander  restlessly 
from  one  object  to  another  when  they  were  not  dilated  in 
that  compelling  gaze  upon  some  one  whom  he  expected  to 
feel  their  power.  Now  he  was  examining  a  knot-hole  in 
the  floor,  a  fly  on  the  window,  the  grain  of  the  wood  in 
the  foot  of  the  bed. 


Ill 


"  She'll  prob'ly  come  to  with  'er  mind  all  gone  ?" 
Phoebe  Ellen  continued. 

He  dragged  his  eyes  wearily  back  to  hers,  but  they  made 
no  attempt  at  intrusion  now.  They  looked  too  dull  and 
listless  to  see  what  was  directly  before  them. 

"  I  can't  say  that/'  he  answered,  in  a  worn,  husky  voice. 
"I  only  say  she  will  probably  never  be  herself  again." 

"  But  the  'mount  o'  change  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  that." 

She  was  gazing  at  him  with  a  good  imitation  of  his 
former  unwinking  stare — she  would  have  given  the  world 
to  be  able  to  produce  on  him  the  same  effect  he  had  pro 
duced  on  her  in  her  moment  of  weakness — but  under  her 
scrutiny  he  displayed  no  more  than  his  ordinary  nervous 
ness.  He  was  never  altogether  quiet.  Sudden  jerkings 
of  his  shoulders  and  hands,  spasmodic  shufflings  of  his  feet 
and  reflpx  twitchings  of  his  mouth  were  a  habit,  or,  rather, 
a  disease  with  him. 

"  Then  all  we  kin  do  's  to  wait/'  said  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  dull  answer. 

She  considered  rapidly.  And  even  while  she  felt  more 
than  ever  convinced  of  the  feasibility  of  usurping  her 
sister's  name  and  place  should  the  girl  wake  up  without 
a  knowledge  of  her  own  identity,  her  habitual  solicitude 
told  her  that  it  would  be  safer  to  have  a  doctor  on  hand 
to  tell  her  and  Sam  what  to  do.  Besides,  if  she  were  to 
ask  him  to  stay,  it  would  show  how  little  she  feared  him, 
and  above  all  things  she  wished  him  to  understand  that. 
Yet  if  he  were  to  remain  in  the  house  he  might  come 
upon  her  in  an  unguarded  moment  and  wrest  her  secret 
from  her  in  spite  of  herself.  But  she  went  on  question 
ing  him,  and  as  she  did  so  her  mind  dwelt  in  a  semi-con 
scious  but  perfectly  clear  way  upon  the  pros  and  cons  of 
the  situation. 

"  She  might  wake  up  ravin.'  ?"  she  inquired. 

His  answer  came  more  wearily  than  before. 


112 

"She  might." 

"  Pore  sis  I"  thought  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  They  orter  be  a 
doctor  'ere  to  look  arter  'er."  Then  aloud,  "  Is  it  likely 
she  will  ?" 

"  I  can't  say." 

"Is  that  mostly  the  way  sech  cases  does  ?" 

"'No." 

"They  mostly  wake  up  quiet,  hey  ?" 

"'Yes." 

"Quiet  V  queer?" 

"Yes,"  with  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile.  "Quiet 
and  queer." 

By  this  time  she  had  decided  her  semi-conscious  argu 
ment  in  the  affirmative. 

"'Udye  mind  stayin'  with  us  till  we  see  which  turn  'er 
trouble  takes  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  thought  of  asking  you  to  let  me  do  that.  I  shall 
be  interested  to  see  how  she  comes  on.  Only — " 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  once  more,  and,  weary  as 
they  were,  she  detected  the  spark  which  might  widen  to 
a  search-light  again,  but  she  met  and  quenched  it  as  by 
water. 

"  Only  wot  ?"  she  asked,  with  perfect  composure. 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  would  care  to  have  me 
around." 

Phoebe  Ellen  smiled. 

"  Queer  ye  should  V  thort  o'  that,"  she  remarked. 

"  Hadn't  you  thought  of  it  ?"  he  asked,  trying  to  flash 
his  eyes  into  hers. 

She  laughed  lightly. 

"I  shall  be  tickled  to  death  o'  my  own  'count,"  she  de 
clared.  "Though  when  I  ast  ye  I  was  thinkin'  o'  my 
sister." 

The  answer  was  a  work  of  art,  and  as  such  Phoebe  Ellen 
admired  it  almost  as  much  as  she  did  its  creator.  "  I'm 
ahead,"  she  thought,  triumphantly,  "  V  I'll  stay  there. 


113 


All  I  got  to  do  's  to  keep  my  five  senses  'bout  me.  No 
more  jabbin'  o'  them  eyes  aroun'  in  my  insides.  Fve  got 
the  whip-hand  'n'  I  mean  to  keep  it." 

And  aloud  she  said,  "  We'll  make  ye  'a  comf'table  'a  wot 
we  kin.  They's  a  room  V  bed,  ain't  they,  Sam  ?" 

"The .best  room'n'  bed,"  said  the  latter. 

"  I'll  stay,"  declared  Dr.  Sedgwick. 

"  We  kin  send  Leatherhead  over  to  Halstead's  fer  any 
thing  ye  want." 

"Thanks.  Fll  see  him  about  that  by-and-by.  Just 
now  I  feel  that  I  must  rest  a  little." 

At  this  moment  Leatherhead  entered  with  a  bowl  of 
something  that  steamed. 

"  Oh,  the  beef -tea,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen.    "I'd  f  ergot  that." 

"Tripe  !"  interrupted  the  cook,  rolling  his  vaguely  sur 
prised  glance  from  one  member  of  the  group  to  another. 
"Ye  don't  mean  ye're  goin'  to  turn  that  into  'er  while 
she's  'sleep !" 

"  Wait  and  see,  if  you  like,"  said  the  doctor,  with  his 
uncanny  smile. 

But  Leatherhead  thrust  the  steaming  bowl  into  his 
hand  and  made  a  dash  for  the  door. 

"  Tripe  !  See  a  gal  loaded  up  with  beef-tea  while  she's 
'sleep  ?  See — a — gal — loaded — say  !" 

And  with  that  he  vanished. 

"  We  are  more  sensible,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  turning  to 
the  doctor  with  a  smile  as  enigmatic  as  his  own. 

"Oh,  we  hide  our  feelings,"  he  interpreted  her. 

"That's  wot  I  meant,"  she  retorted,  with  a  flash. 

The  doctor  drew  his  chair  to  the  bedside  within  reach 
ing  distance  of  the  patient's  mouth.  Sam  and  Phoebe 
Ellen  drew  near. 

"We  want  to  see  how  it's  done,"  she  explained.  "It's 
suthin'  new,  this  sort  o'  feedin'  a  person  while  they're 
asleep.  'N'  mebbe  we'll  have  to  do  it  ourselves.  But 
ain't  ye  too  tired  ?" 


114 

"I'd  better  show  you  how  it's  done,  though  there  is 
really  no  mystery  about  it." 

"  All  good  roads  V  down  hill  ?"  She  stood  above  him 
altogether  at  ease,  yet  every  sense  on  the  alert  lest  at  an 
unguarded  moment  he  should  attempt  that  mysterious 
intrusion,  of  which  she  stood  so  abjectly  in  dread. 

He  repeated  the  words  after  her :  ' '  All  good  roads  and 
down  hill."  Then  he  tested  the  heat  of  the  tea  by  touch 
ing  the  spoon  to  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  That  is  about 
right/7  he  said. 

He  brought  the  spoon  to  Anny's  mouth  as  a  mother 
feeds  a  baby — with  the  food  at  the  point,  so  that  it  readily 
came  into  contact  with  the  lips  and  tongue.  The  mouth 
contracted  a  little,  drew  in  a  bit  of  the  liquid,  and  the 
tongue  rolled  it  awkwardly  about  as  if  tasting  it.  Then 
it  was  swallowed. 

"Queer,"  muttered  Phoebe  Ellen,  from  behind  the  doc 
tor's  chair. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  but  he  found  her  on  guard  over 
her  emotions. 

"There  really  is  no  mystery  about  it,"  he  repeated, 
turning  again  to  his  patient. 

"  Oh,  ye  treat  'er  dif rent  from  wot  ye  do  well  folks, 
then,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  just  to  show  how  completely  she 
was  mistress  of  the  situation. 

The  doctor  paused  with  the  spoon  half-way  to  the 
patient's  mouth. 

"I  have  a  mysterious  way  of  treating  well  people, 
then  ?" 

"  Ye  think  ye  have,"  she  retorted,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"My  means  sometimes  succeed  in  the  end,"  he  re 
marked,  administering  the  tea,  which  the  patient  took 
with  a  mechanical  relish  such  as  puckers  a  week -old 
baby's  mouth  when  a  bit  of  sugar  is  dropped  upon  its 
tongue. 

"  That  'pends  on  who  ye   try  'em  on,"  she  replied. 


115 


"Well  people's  heads  ain't  cracked,  V  they  know  their 
own  interests  from  a  side  o'  sole-leather." 

"  There  !"  said  the  doctor,  rising  and  placing  the  bowl 
in  her  hands.  ' '  I'm  worn  out  and  will  have  to  lie  down 
for  an  hour.  You  see  how  to  go  on  feeding  her  —  Til 
leave  it  for  you  to  finish  up.  There's  nothing  further, 
except  to  keep  on  changing  the  bandages  every  few  min 
utes,  and  feed  her  once  in  every  three  or  four  hours." 

il  How  shall  I  know  when  she's  got  'nough  ?"  asked 
Phoebe  Ellen,  assuming  the  bowl  and  spoon,  and  taking 
her  place  at  the  bedside. 

"She'll  stop  taking  it." 

"  Oh  !     'W  shall  I  give  'er  anything  to  drink  ?" 

' '  You  can  try  her  with  water  in  a  spoon.  Give  her  all 
she  will  take." 

"  Ye  do  look  ruther  tired,"  remarked  Phoebe  Ellen, 
with  a  burst  of  concessive  kindness. 

"  Thanks,"  he  answered,  dryly. 

"  Yre  overestimate  yer  strength,  I  shouldn't  wonder," 
she  continued,  becoming  perverse  again  and  speaking  in 
a  tone  whose  significance  he  could  not  mistake.  She  was 
master  now,  and  her  voice  rang  high  and  triumphant. 
"Ye  orter  be  keerful  o'  that.  It  allus  gits  folks  into 
trouble." 

He  did  not  try  to  oppose  her,  but  left  the  room,  pre 
ceded  by  Sam,  who  was  to  show  him  to  his  chamber. 

"  'Pears  like  he's  purty  well  done  out,"  remarked  the 
latter  on  his  return.  "Wot  d'  ye  think  o'  him,  any 
how  ?" 

His  question  was  intended  to  be  answered  in  a  profes 
sional  way,  but,  woman-like,  Phoebe  Ellen  made  it  a  per 
sonal  matter. 

"  I  hate  'im !"  she  answered,  and  went  on  feeding  out 
her  tea. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FINALLY  the  invalid's  lips  drew  themselves  up  in  an 
obstinate  pucker  when  the  spoon  was  presented,  and 
Phoebe  Ellen  knew  that  her  task  was  done. 

Sam  had  been  watching  her  over  her  shoulder. 

"  It  sorter  sends  a  shiver  through  a  feller,"  he  said. 
f '  It's  'most  like  ye  was  to  feed  a  corpse  'n'  it  was  to  take 
to  swollerin'."  He  turned  away  and  walked  the  length 
of  the  room. 

"  I  can't  b'lieve  all  he  says  'bout  the  way  she's  likely  to 
wake  up,"  declared  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  He  ain't  old  'nough 
to  've  had  much  'sperience.  Wot  kind  o'  feller  is  he, 
anyhow  ?" 

"  He  seems  to  know  a  heap  o'  things,  one  way  V 
'nother,"  responded  Sam.  "The  way  he  brought  Lafe 
Henderson  aroun'  arter  the  shootin'  up  to  Ferguson's 
showed  he  knows  wot  he's  up  to." 

"  Ye  reckon  he's  to  be  trusted,  then  ?" 

"I  have  that  feeling"  he  answered,  sadly.  "I  wish  't 
I  could  misdoubt  'im.  It's  a  orfle  thing  he's  prophesyin' 
o'  'er.  But  I  know  he  wouldn't  say  it  'thout  he  had 
groun's." 

"I'm  goin'  to  hope  fer  the  best,  anyway,"  declared 
Phoebe  Ellen.  Somehow  she  found  it  a  rather  cheerful 
business  to  hope  for  the  best  when  the  doctor  had  decided 
for  the  worst.  "  No  man  kin  know  wot's  comin'  for 
shore.  The  skull  might  be  cracked  V  not  press  the 
least  speck  on  the  inside.  I've  seen  cracked  eggs  that 
way." 

He  shook  his  head. 


117 


"Eggs  ain't  brains.  He  knows.  The  Doc  knows,"  he 
repeated. 

It  was  a  pleasure  for  her  to  talk  over  the  case  with 
him  in  this  friendly  way,  and  she  almost  forgot  in  his 
proximity  that  it  was  her  own  sister  whose  misfortune 
she  was  discussing.  He  seemed  so  cast  down,  so  anxious 
about  the  girl's  dreadful  fate,  that  it  satisfied  a  need  of 
hers  to  console  him  and  make  him  look  on  the  bright  side. 
Besides,  his  gloomy  confidence  in  the  doctor's  judgment 
gave  her  a  thrill  of  assurance,  as  if  Providence  were  taking 
her  part.  Sam  still  believed  her  to  be  the  heiress,  and 
she  might  be  so  in  fact  if  her  sister  were  never  to  recover 
her  senses.  Everything  looked  favorable  ;  however,  there 
was  one  matter  that  must  be  looked  after.  She  must 
take  care  not  to  compromise  herself  by  a  declaration  of 
her  usurped  individuality  till  Anny  awoke  and  it  could 
be  definitely  ascertained  how  much  she  remembered  of 
her  past.  As  for  her  tacit  admission  that  she  was  the 
heiress,  she  could  always  explain  that  by  the  agitation 
of  the  moment,  when  she  had  been  incapable  of  noticing 
anything.  Silence  is  never  conclusively  condemnatory, 
and  she  had  done  nothing  more  criminal  than  to  hold  her 
peace.  She  could  manage  it  easily  enough.  The  thing 
for  her  to  be  careful  of  during  the  remaining  term  of 
Aimy's  unconsciousness  was  to  keep  from  being  addressed 
by  her  sister's  name ;  or,  if  so  addressed,  to  overlook  the 
fact  so  as  to  carry  no  consequences  into  the  future.  And 
even  while  she  thought  about  it,  a  plan  was  forming  it 
self  in  her  brain  by  which  it  would  be  wellnigh  impos 
sible  to  commit  herself  in  her  sister's  name.  She  was 
too  self-confident  to  be  troubled  by  the  possibility  that 
her  plan  itself  might  occasion  suspicion  ;  but  her  inge 
nuity  was  precisely  of  the  sort  to  overlook  details  to  which 
a  less  simple  nature  would  have  attached  a  proper  value 
from  the  first. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  go  to  say  he  wa'n't  ekal  to  his  bizness," 


118 

she  said,  apropos  of  Sam's  last  speech.  "It's  only  nat'ral 
to  want  to  b'lieve  the  best  o'  a  feller's  own  sister.  That's 
all  I  meant." 

"I  kin  onderstan'  that/' he  answered.  "But  it's  all 
right  to  be  prepared  for  the  wust." 

"Yes,  but  a  feller  kin  do  that  V  be  hopeful,  too. 
Well,  they  ain't  nothing  fer  us  to  do  now  but  to  wait." 

"It  seems  kind  o'  dreary,  don't  it  ?" 

"Three  or  four  days?  It  seems  a  age!  Ho  w'll  we 
ever  git  through  it  ?" 

"  I'm  glad  we  got  to  stan'  it  stiddier  o'  her"  he  said, 
after  a  little  pause. 

Phoebe  Ellen  adopted  the  sentiment  readily. 

"  So  be  I.  She  don't  know — she  don't  sense  nothin'. 
It's  us  't  has  to  do  the  sufferin'.  'N'  yit — pore  sis  !" 

Her  willingness  to  suffer  instead  of  Anny  must  have 
rung  false,  for  without  being  offended  he  changed  the 
subject. 

"  'Pears  like  it's  kinder  queer  how  ye  V  yer  sister  never 
calls  each  other  by  yer  Christian-names.  I  noticed  yer 
never  doin'  it  wunst  on  the  way  over.  'N'  sence  we  got 
'ere  ye  ain't  called  'er  by  'er  fust  name  a  single  time." 

For  an  instant  her  heart  fluttered  in  doubt  and  dread. 
Then  she  felt  the  dangerous  ground  grow  firm  under  her 
feet  as  she  saw  her  way  across  it  to  the  outworking  of  a 
part  of  her  plan. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  way  we  was  brung  up,"  she  replied,  in 
easy  explanation.  This  was  true  enough,  and  probably  he 
himself  had  divined  it.  But  her  next  statement  went 
further.  "  'Pears  like  the  habit  o'  never  usin'  our  names 
to  each  other  's  give  us  a  kind  o'  horror  o'  'em,  sometimes. 
Back  East  there  in  Nebrasky,  where  we  come  from,  we 
was  never  called  by  our  fust  names — I  was  Miss  Thomp 
son,  V  so  was  sis.  We  growed  used  to  it,  V  I  like  it 
better.  Ye  made  up  yer  mind  some  time  ago  't  I  was  a 
crank,  I  reckon  ?"  She  smiled  at  him,  and  he  thought 


119 


he  had  never  before  seen  her  look  so  pretty,  so  like  her 
sister. 

He  was  obliged  to  admit  that  she  was  not  mistaken  in 
his  estimate  of  her  peculiarities. 

"  It's  the  way  folks  does  in  Nebrasky,  to  call  each  other 
by  their  fust  names  arter  they  git  'quainted,"  she  con 
tinued. 

"  So  'tis  out  West  'ere/'  said  Sam. 

"  That's  wot  I  reckoned.  Well,  now,  I  don't  like  it.  I 
own  I  don't  like  it.  It's  too  Western  'n'  f 'milyer  —  that's 
wot  'tis.  I  like  to  be  Miss  Thompson  V  nothin'  else.  I 
may  be  funny — I  reckon  I  be,  but  I  can't  help  it.  It  goes 
agin  me  turble  to  be  called  by  my  Christian  -  name — it 
allus  did." 

"  Have  I  called  ye  that  ?"  inquired  Sam. 

"  No.  Nobody  hain't  yit,  V I  don't  want  'em  to.  That's 
wot  I'm  talkin'  'bout." 

"I'll  'member,"  he  said.  Evidently  it  was  of  no  conse 
quence  to  him  what  she  preferred  to  be  called. 

"  Thankee.  'W  say  !  'Ud  ye  mind  tellin'  the  doctor  ? 
I  hate  'im,  anyway,  'n'  it  'ud  clean  set  me  on  needles  'n' 
pins  to  have  'im  go  agin  me  like  that.  'N'  while  he's  here 
in  the  house,  right  under  my  face  'n'  nose,  so  to  speak,  I'd 
like  to  git  'long  with  'im  'thout  rowinV 

"I'll  tell  'im,  though  I  don't  reckon  he'd  call  ye  by  yer 
fust  name,  nohow.  Boston  folks  ain't  up  to  sech-like." 

"  'N'  I'll  see  to  Leatherhead.  The  other  boys  '11  do  like 
they  hear  you  'n'  Leatherhead  do,  anyhow.  Well,  I'll  be 
'bleeged  to  ye  fer  tellin'  the  doctor.  I  want  to  git  along 
peaceable  V  harmonious." 

Thus  she  provided,  for  at  least  a  few  days,  against  being 
called  by  the  name  which  might  compromise  her.  Against 
anything  further  she  must  take  her  chances.  But  she 
would  have  her  wits  constantly  about  her  ;  and,  with  her 
will  to  back  and  direct  them,  she  felt  more  than  a  match 
for  mere  chance  happenings. 


120 

"  Seems  kinder  queer  the  hatred  ye  take  to  people  at 
fust  sight/'  remarked  Sam,  in  his  slow  way. 

Phoebe  Ellen  smiled,  and  again  she  was  like  her  sister. 

"Now  ye're  thinkin'  o'  the  way  I  treated  you"  she 
said. 

He  could  not  deny  the  soft  impeachment. 

"Oh,  Fve  got  over  that,"  she  declared. 

He  smiled  in  faint  gratification. 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that,"  he  said.  "I  like  to  git  along  smooth 
V  easy.  '  Life's  too  short  fer  the  other  thing." 

"Ye  kin  do  the  other  thing,  though,  I  notice,  when 
folks  tries  to  run  over  ye." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted. 

"  Well,  we  ain't  agoin'  to  fight  no  more.  I  was  wrong, 
all  wrong —  one  o'  my  queer  spells  took  me.  I  told  ye  I 
had  my  crazy  p'ints.  Wot'ud  the  doctor  do  if  I  was  to 
fly  at  'im  like  that  ?  Things  orter  go  smooth  between  him 
V  me  fer  sis's  sake." 

"  Yes."  Sam  saw  the  force  of  the  last  observation,  and 
Phoebe  Ellen  noticed  the  light  of  conviction  that  settled 
in  his  slow,  ruminant  eyes.  "  I'll  speak  to  'im  when  he 
comes  out." 

"  He's  a  orfle  funny  duck,"  remarked  Phoebe  Ellen,  just 
to  hear  what  Sam  would  say. 

"  Well,  I  d'  know  's  wot  anybody  'd  go  agin  yer  jedg- 
ment  there.  He  is  a  funny  duck.  They  tell  wild  stories 
'bout  'im  over  there  to  Halstead's." 

"  Wild  stories  ?"  she  repeated.  "  That  may  mean  any 
thing."  • 

"  It  means  in  his  case  't  he  has  the  piercin'est  way  o' 
lookin'  at  people  't  ever  I  seen.  They  say  over  there — " 

"  Oh,  ye  can't  tell  me  nothin'  'bout  the  way  he  looks  at 
people,"  interrupted  Phoebe  Ellen.  "He  tried  it  on  me." 

"  I  noticed.     But  he  didn't  seem  to  make  out  much." 

She  sniffed  loftily,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Trust  me  fer 
that!"  Then  aloud: 


121 

Wot  d'  ye  reckon  he  was  trying  to  make  out,  any- 

?" 

"  I  d'  know  in  your  case,  but  they  say  over  there  to 

Halstead's  't  he's  alias  'sperimentin'  on  some  un  like  that, 

tryin'  to  git  on  to  wot  they're  thinkin'.     He  stares  at  ye 

*  till  he  makes  ye  feel  weak  V  queer,  then  he  kin  find  out 

anything  he  likes.     They  say  he  reely  kin." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  a  word  o'  it !"  declared  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Mind-reading  he  calls  it.  'W  hypnoozin'.  I  d'  know 
jes'  wot  'tis,  fer  I  ain't  up  to  sech  ;  but  I  know  he's  done 
some  funny  things  with  the  folks  over  to  Halstead's. 
They're  full  o'  it.  They're  afeerd  o'  him,  though  in  spite 
o'  everything  he  'ain't  never  harmed  nobody.  He  jes' 
looks  into  folks  till  he  finds  out  wot  he  wants,  then  he 
lets  'em  go.  'Pears  like  it's  his  way  o'  havin'  fun." 

"  He'd  better  not  try  it  on  me  agin,"  threatened  Phoebe 
Ellen. 

"  Wot  '11  ye  do  ?" 

"I'll  show  'im  he's  got  a  holt  o'  one  woomarn  't  he 
can't  make  a  fool  of.  La !  it's  easy  'nough  to  git  the 
start  o'  him !" 

"  Be  ye  shore  ye  did  ?" 

The  question  gave  her  a  little  chill,  but  she  answered 
promptly  : 

"  Course  I  be  !  I  knowed  wot  he  was  tryin'  to  do  fust 
off,  'n'  I  jes'  shet  my  mind  up  agin  'im." 

"  I  ain't  shore  /  could  do  it,"  said  Sam. 

"  Well,  /  ain't  afeerd  o'  'im,"  she  asserted,  more  boldly 
than  ever.  "It'ud  be  queer  if  the  hypnoozer  found  his- 
self  hypnoozed  one  o'  these  fine  days,  wouldn't  it  now  ? 
Well,  all  I  say  is,  let  'im  look  out.  Fm  likely  to  fly  off 
the  handle  'n'  stick  in  the  wall !  But  say !  Hadn't  ye 
better  go  V  lay  down  a  bit  ?  Ye  didn't  get  a  bit  o'  sleep 
las'  night." 

"  I  was  thinkin'  o'  that,"  he  answered.  "  If  I'm  to  set 
up  with  'er  agin  to-night,  I  might  's  well  keep  fresh  fer 


122 


the  bizness.  I  reckon  I  better  take  the  night  watch  right 
'long  till  she  comes  to.  'N'  I'll  lay  out  to  sleep  durin' 
the  day." 

On  his  way  to  the  barn,  where  he  purposed  taking  a  nap 
on  the  hay — Sam  always  slept  where  there  was  plenty  of 
air  stirring — he  ran  across  the  doctor,  who  was  pacing 
restlessly  up  and  down  among  the  pines. 

"  Hello  !  ye  didn't  lay  down  long,  arter  all,  did  ye  ?" 
Sam  called  out.  "Anything  happen  to  stir  ye  out  ?" 

"  I  never  lie  down  long  at  a  time/'  answered  the  doctor, 
pausing  in  the  sun  and  working  his  clinched  fingers  to 
gether  behind  his  back.  "  Not  even  at  night.  My  legs  begin 
to  jerk,  and  I  have  to  get  up  and  move  about.  And  my 
toe-joints  grind  together.  Great  God  !  Did  you  ever 
have  that  feeling  in  your  toes,  Sam  ?" 

His  eyes  widened  on  the  cowboy  as  if  to  give  him  a 
glimpse  of  horrors. 

"Never,"  said  Sam,  unaffected  except  to  the  extent  of 
considering  it  queer. 

"Pray  God  you  never  may,"  the  doctor  went  on. 
"  There's  no  torture  of  the  damned  that  equals  it.  To  be 
on  the  point  of  falling  asleep — to  feel  one's  self  sinking 
dreamily  and  peacefully  away,  then  —  wrench  !  grind  ! 
rasp  !  All  the  horrors  of  hell  are  in  that  feeling.  Well ! 
what  are  they  doing  back  there  ?" 

He  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  home 
ranch. 

"  She  breathes  jes'  the  same.  They  was  gittin'  some 
more  tea  ready  fer  'er  when  I  left." 

The  doctor  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"It's  time,"  he  said.  "  She's  prompt — your  Miss  Anny. 
How  do  you  think  you  are  going  to  like  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me — she  objecks  to  bein'  called  by  'er 
fust  name.  She  wants  to  be  called  jes'  Miss  Thompson." 

The  doctor  was  silent  during  a  pause  of  puzzled  in 
quiry. 


123 


"  Have  you  been  calling  her  anything  else  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh  no/'  was  Sam's  answer. 

There  was  another  little  pause,  after  which  the  doctor 
frowned. 

"Oh,  she  was  merely  warning  you  beforehand  ?  That 
was  kind  of  her."  The  tone  was  sarcastic. 

"I  d'  know  's  t'was  meant  for  me  more  'n  other  folks," 
declared  Sam. 

"Did  she  mention  names  ?" 

"Yes,  she  did." 

"For  instance — " 

"Yourn." 

"  That  was  kind  of  her,"  murmured  the  doctor. 

"Id'  know  's  'twas  meant  to  be  noways  as  kind  's  ye 
'pear  to  think.  She  didn't  pertend  to  be  up  to  the  kind 
act.  She  jes'  put  it  at  me  in  the  light  o'  a  freak." 

"  Oh  !  a  freak  ?" 

"  She  said  'twas  jes'  'er  way.     She  liked  it  better." 

Now  the  doctor's  pause  was  filled  with  a  wide  scrutiny 
of  Sam's  large,  simple  features. 

"She  asked  you  in  so  many  words  to  speak  to  me 
about  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  to  call  her  anything  but  Miss  Thompson  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  she  gave  no  reason  ?" 

"No." 

"Did  she  seem  to  think  I  might  call  her  by  her  first 
name  ?" 

"I  took  it  so." 

"  Queer,  isn't  it  ?"  The  doctor  unclinched  his  hands 
from  behind  and  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast. 

"Oh,  we  all  have  our  queernesses,"  said  Sam,  philo 
sophically. 

"  Very  queer,"  repeated  the  doctor,  biting  his  thumb 
nail  nervously  as  he  walked  away. 


124 

When  Leatherhead  brought  in  the  tea  Phoebe  Ellen 
made  the  same  request  of  him  that  Sam  had  made  of  the 
doctor. 

"  Call  ye  Miss  Thompson,  'n'  nothin'  else  ?"  he  repeated, 
dropping  his  jaw  and  bulging  his  eyes  in  the  meaningless 
astonishment  which  was  the  ultimate  expression  of  his  in 
dividuality.  "  Hang  it,  ain't  that  comin'  it  ruther  high 
'n'  mighty  fer  the  range  kentry  ?  0"  course,  back  East 
there  in  ISTebrasky,  where  they  put  on  style,  everything 
goes ;  but  out  'ere —  Miss  Thompson  !  Say,  we  allus  call 
'em  by  their  fust  names  arter  we  git  to  know  'em,  'n' 
sometimes  we  tack  Another  name  on,  too,  jes'  for  a  flier. 
There's  Rawhide  Sal  over  to  Halstead's,  V  Freckled  Ma- 
riar  over  to  Ferguson's,  V  Slungshot  Susan  over  to — " 

" Never  mind!"  interrupted  Phoebe  Ellen,  sternly. 
"  Ye'll  'member  wot  I  say  ?" 

And  thus  the  matter  was  settled  with  Leatherhead ; 
and  Phoebe  Ellen  once  more  went  conscientiously  to  work 
feeding  out  the  tea. 

"I  managed  that  purty  well,"  she  said  to  herself,  ap 
provingly.  "  'N'  if  Sam  V  the  doctor  'n'  Leatherhead 
don't  call  me  Anny,  nobody  will.  So  that's  all  fixed." 

But  in  the  midst  of  her  self-gratulation  a  dreadful 
thought  presented  itself. 

' '  Wot  if  sis  was  to  wake  up  in  'er  right  mind  now  9" 

The  possibility  made  her  gasp  for  breath. 

"  I  couldn't  excuse  myself  fer  this,  nohow.  I'd  jes' 
have  to  own  up,  'n'  take  consequences.  That'ud  be  hor 
rid.  But  if  she  should  come  to  in  'er  right  mind — " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  came  like  the  echo  of  a  ham 
mer's  stroke. 

"  I  might  have  a  dose  ready  fer  'er,  to  be  on  the  safe 
side  !" 

She  cast  aside  the  thought  as  best  she  could,  and  tried 
to  think  of  something  else. 

"  That's  jes'  like  me ;   I  never  kin  see  a  inch  afore  my 


125 

nose  in  broad  daylight,  nohow.  Why  didn't  I  keep  my 
mouth  shet  V  run  chances  ?  Wot  a  fix !  But  she  won't 
be  'erself — the  doctor  says  she  won't.  I'll  be  good  to  'er ; 
I'll  give  'er  jes'  wot  the  doctor  orders,  'n'nothin*  more.  I 
kin  'ford  to  take  good  keer  o'  'er  ;  she  won't  never  be  able 
to  harm  me.  'N'  wot  if  Leatherhead  should  fergit  'n'  call 
me  Miss  Anny,  arter  all  my  cautionin';  V  wot  if  that 
doctor  should  turn  contrairy  'n'  do  the  same,  jes'  'cause  I 
ast  'im  not  to  ?  I'd  have  to  make  a  row,  o'  course,  V  that 
ud  fix  it  more  'n  ever  in  their  minds  't  I'd  been  passin' 
under  Anny's  name.  Well,  I  am  a  shore  'nough  fool ! 
But  she  won't  come  to  in  'er  proper  senses ;  I  know  she 
won't !" 

She  looked  down  at  her  sister  with  hard  examination. 

"I  won't  pizen  'er,  though  —  I  swear  to  God  I  won't! 
She's  my  sister — I  mustn't  lose  sight  o'  that.  Well,  I  got 
to  make  the  best  o'  my  folly ;  but  wot  folly,  to  be  shore  ! 
Arter  all,  the  chief  thing  to  dread  is  't  she'll  wake  up  in 
'er  right  mind." 

And  in  her  anxiety  she  lost  sight  of  the  depravity  evi 
denced  by  that  dread.  But  she  was  not  altogether  cast 
down.  We  seldom  are  appalled  by  the  probable  conse 
quences  of  our  stupidity.  And  Phoebe  Ellen  had  great 
confidence  in  what  she  called  her  "wits." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

she  and  the  doctor  next  met,  a  little  before 
noon,  they  greeted  each  other  with  civility,  and  discussed 
the  condition  of  the  patient  with  all  the  outward  signs 
of  respect  and  confidence.  The  doctor  looked  at  her  only 
momentarily,,  and,  as  far  as  appearances  went,  for  assistance 
in  understanding  more  completely  what  she  had  to  say  ; 
and  there  was  no  betrayal  of  antagonism  in  her  answer 
ing  glance.  If  there  was  indeed  a  feeling  of  opposition 
in  her,  she  merged  it  so  thoroughly  into  her  very  natural 
solicitude  for  her  sister  that  it  was  undetectable  in  its 
diluted  state.  She  was  eagerly,  anxiously  helpful.  Pos 
sibly  her  very  alertness  to  danger  gave  her  a  more  natural, 
because  a  more  womanly,  air ;  the  womanliness  resulting 
inevitably  from  any  change  not  violently  for  the  worse. 
But  she  was  not  her  natural  self  ;  Sam  noticed  it,  with  a 
lively  sense  of  improvement  in  her  which  his  hopeful 
nature  tried  to  think  of  as  permanent.  She  spoke  in  a 
tone  of  subdued  shrillness  which  in  another  woman  would 
have  been  threatening,  but  in  her  was  almost  dove-like. 
She  did  not  wag  her  head  so  much  as  Sam  believed  was 
her  habit ;  her  chin  had  a  less  forward  slant ;  she  stood 
less  frequently  with  her  arms  akimbo ;  she  showed  a 
facility  in  smiling  which  reminded  him  more  and  more 
agreeably  of  her  sister.  These  changes  were  all  good  to 
see,  and  if  Sam  did  not  develop  an  actual  liking  for  her, 
he  at  least  began  to  think  of  her  as  a  tolerable  sort  of 
young  woman,  and  to  remember  her  conduct  at  the  de 
pot  as  one  phase  of  that  mysterious  phenomenon  called 


127 

"  nerves/'  by  which  men  try  in  a  word  to  explain  the  un- 
explainable  in  woman. 

The  doctor  remained  with  the  patient  while  Phoebe  Ellen 
and  Sarn  took  dinner  together.  Throughout  the  meal  she 
was  uninterruptedly  pleasant  and  conciliating.  She  com 
plimented  the  cowboy  on  his  way  of  managing  the  estate — 
she  had  actually  found  nothing  that  she  would  care  to 
change,  though  she  had  a  secret  belief  that  she  could,  if 
she  chose  to  give  time  to  it — and  listened  to  his  state 
ment  of  her  bank  account — Anny's  bank  account ! — with 
but  a  slight  intensification  of  the  applause  she  bestowed 
upon  the  care  he  had  taken  in  training  the  pea-vines  to 
their  present  state  of  productiveness. 

The  doctor  frequently  came  into  the  sick-room  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon,  but  he  never  remained  long.  He 
entered,  made  a  few  inquiries,  noted  the  patient's  pulse, 
removed  the  bandage  and  examined  the  wound,  remarked 
that  she  was  getting  on  as  well  as  could  be  expected,  and 
then  went  out.  Sometimes  he  lay  down  for  a  few  min 
utes  in  the  room  which  had  been  prepared  for  him  ;  some 
times  he  sprawled  in  the  most  fatiguing  postures  across  a 
chair  on  the  veranda  ;  sometimes  he  spread  himself  out  on 
the  mountain-side  in  the  sun,  and  lay  kicking  and  twist 
ing  about,  making  hillocks  of  the  carefully  packed  pine- 
needles. 

After  supper,  while  they  were  making  their  arrange 
ments  for  the  night,  Dr.  Sedgwick  suggested  several  things 
for  the  comfort  of  both  watchers  and  patient.  He  seemed 
kindly  disposed,  and  there  was  nothing  in  look  or  glance 
to  indicate  a  desire  to  poach  on  Phoebe  Ellen's  mental 
preserves.  He  engaged  in  some  general  conversation  with 
her,  went  into  the  defects  of  ranch -life  from  a  Boston 
point  of  view,  and  expatiated  on  the  effect  of  the  Colorado 
climate  on  pulmonary  troubles.  He  even  displayed  a 
saturnine  humor  now  and  then  which  made  her  laugh  :  as 
when  he  remarked  that  he,  as  a  consumptive,  would  rather 


128 


make  more  desolate  the  most  arid  half-acre  in  Colorado 
than  decorate  the  prettiest  cemetery  in  New  England. 
But  she  suspected  him  always,  and  never  for  a  moment 
was  off  her  guard.  His  eyes  seldom  met  hers,  and  that 
fact  in  itself  made  her  suspicious.  He  was  lulling  her 
into  a  sense  of  security,  and  when  he  found  her  absent- 
minded  or  on  the  point  of  yielding  to  some  passing  emo 
tion  he  would  enter  her  mind  and  take  possession,  just  as 
he  had  done  this  morning,  only  more  completely — explore 
its  nooks  and  corners  to  the  uttermost,  pull  out  and  ex 
amine  its  disgraceful  possessions  and  publish  their  value 
and  import  to  the  world.  She  had  a  horrid  conviction 
that  if  he  were  to  gain  the  mastery  over  her  again,  it  would 
be  forever.  Once  in  there  after  what  had  already  oc 
curred,  she  could  never  thrust  him  out ;  she  would  remain 
the  creature  of  his  will,  unresisting,  passive,  disgraced  by 
his  knowledge  of  her  soul. 

The  night  passed  without  change  in  the  patient's  con 
dition.  Sam  had  slept  sufficiently  during  the  day  to  take 
up  his  post  once  more  without  fatigue,  and  Phoebe  Ellen, 
desiring  at  least  a  formal  share  of  his  watch,  arranged  a 
bed  for  herself  on  an  old  lounge  which  was  brought  in 
from  some  obscure  corner  of  the  house  and  fitted  up  with 
comforts  and  pillows  for  the  occasion.  She  awoke  several 
times  in  the  night,  but  always  found  Sam  at  his  post,  at 
tentive,  thoughtful,  strong  in  the  strenuous  tenderness  of 
kindly  manhood  which  was  so  eminently  his  possession. 
She  felt  his  presence  in  the  room  with  the  utter  confi 
dence  which  is  so  precious  to  woman  in  her  relations  with 
man. 

The  forenoon  of  the  second  day  came  and  went.  Still 
nothing  unusual  between  Phoebe  Ellen  and  the  doctor. 
But  her  problem  was  assuming  proportions  of  which  she 
had  never  dreamed.  At  first  it  had  been  simple  enough — 
to  look  after  her  sister,  and,  if  the  latter  never  came  to 
her  right  mind,  assume  her  name  and  estate  in  such  man- 


129 

ner  as  would  best  serve  her  own  interests ;  but  now  her 
chief  care  had  become  to  avert  the  suspicions  of  a  mind- 
reader,  at  whose  ultimate  power  she  could  only  guess. 
Everything  but  the  mind-reader  could  take  care  of  itself. 
And,  realizing  this  fact,  she  found  herself  facing  him 
with  a  steadiness  of  nerve  which,  while  it  put  upon  her  a 
strain  beyond  her  strength,  gave  her  a  confidence  in  final 
triumph,  and  yielded  her  a  satisfaction  such  as  underlies 
all  strong  volition  in  natures  accustomed  to  dominate. 
She  developed  a  sort  of  inward  vision  by  which  she  knew 
when  his  eyes  were  upon  her  ;  she  was  aware  of  his  move 
ments  when  her  back  was  towards  him ;  at  times  she  al 
most  penetrated  his  thoughts. 

He  had  been  careful  to  avoid  the  use  of  her  Christian- 
name  ;  he  addressed  her  merely  as  ' *'  you,"  and,  when  Sam 
was  present,  indicated  whom  he  meant  by  fixing  his  eyes 
momentarily  upon  her.  That  was  best ;  certainly  it  was 
easiest  for  her.  But  she  was  prepared  at  any  moment  to 
have  him  address  her  as  Miss  Anny,  and  to  resent  it  with 
all  the  energy  of  oifended  majesty.  The  more  she  thought 
of  it,  the  more  stupid  it  seemed  to  her  to  have  prohibited 
the  name  at  all ;  she  should  have  said  nothing  about  it, 
for  the  chances  against  her  would  have  been  no  stronger 
than  at  present,  considering  the  doctor's  peculiar  disposi 
tion  to  search  and  pry.  She  had  been  silly,  certainly ; 
but  this  conviction  operated  beneficently  in  her  case,  for 
it  sharpened  her  intellect,  if  not  her  conscience ;  she  be 
came  nervously  alert  to  the  means  of  forestalling  what 
ever  should  tell  against  her,  but  was  never  really  sorry  for 
what  she  had  done  except  as  it  rendered  her  method  of 
procedure  more  difficult. 

But  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  Phoebe  Ellen 
noticed  signs  of  reviving  storm  in  the  doctor's  direction. 
He  came  to  the  room  where  she  was  sitting  with  Anny, 
and,  after  his  customary  examination  of  the  patient,  set 
tled  back  in  his  chair  with  the  evident  intention  of  hav- 


130 

ing  a  talk.  Settling  back  in  his  chair,  in  the  doctor's 
case,  meant  that  he  hooked  his  armpit  over  the  pommel, 
twisted  his  fingers  together,  spread  his  thin  legs — the 
horrible  thinness  of  a  consumptive's  legs  has  never  been 
touched  upon  in  literature  —  and  proceeded  to  writhe. 
His  talk  began  naturally  enough,  and  passed  easily  from 
one  subject  to  another,  Phoebe  Ellen  following  it,  inward 
ly  watchful  and  defiant.  Suddenly,  in  the  course  of  some 
indifferent  remark,  he  called  her  "Miss  Thompson"  with 
an  emphasis  which  meant  mischief.  Phoebe  Ellen  was 
open  to  signs  and  portents,  and  was  not  slow  to  scent  dan 
ger.  She  did  not  glance  up  from  her  mending  at  once — 
she  had  found  that  she  could  pick  up  a  bit  of  work  to  ad 
vantage  during  the  five-minute  intervals  of  nursing — but 
kept  her  eyes  riveted  to  her  needle,  and  went  on  steadily 
drawing  the  thread  in  and  out.  Then  as  he  paused  in  his 
speech,  and  she  had  a  chance  for  a  rejoinder,  she  glanced 
easily  in  his  direction,  as  one  naturally  does  before  taking 
the  conversation  upon  one's  self.  Nevertheless  she  was 
inwardly  disturbed,  and  half  expected  the  hypnotic  stare 
with  which  she  was  familiar.  His  eyes  were  upon  her,  to 
be  sure,  but  with  a  half-amused,  half-sarcastic  look,  as  if 
he  were  wondering  how  she  would  take  his  emphatic 
compliance  with  her  wishes.  She  was  confident  that  no 
change  crossed  her  features  as  their  glances  met ;  she 
went  on  with  what  she  had  started  to  say,  finished  it,  and 
was  delighted  to  see  the  look  of  sarcastic  amusement  fade 
from  his  face  before  she  once  more  lowered  her  eyes  to 
her  work. 

But  the  doctor  was  not  to  be  discomfited  by  one  failure. 
He  pulled  himself  together  and  proceeded  to  other  topics 
of  conversation.  But  "Miss  Thompson,"  uttered  with 
sarcastic  emphasis,  came  in  at  every  third  word.  The 
constant  iteration,  the  nagging  tone,  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  trying  to  make  her  lose  her  temper,  irritated  her 
beyond  measure ;  she  was  accustomed  to  meet  anything 


131 


of  the  sort  with  loud-tongued  defiance,  and  the  effort  to 
control  herself  brought  an  ominous  thinness  to  her  lips 
and  n  wrinkle  to  the  corner  of  her  mouth  which  indicated 
the  tension  under  which  she  was  laboring.  She  began  to 
count,  and  found  that  the  effort  quieted  her.  "Be  I 
takin'  my  stitches  reg'lar,  I  wonder  ?  If  I  kin  keep  my 
mind  on  that,  it  '11  help  me."  Thus  she  gathered  herself 
firmly  in,  adjusting  her  thoughts,  not  by  what  he  was  say 
ing,  but  by  the  regularity  with  which  she  purposed  to 
draw  her  thread  in  and  out  in  spite  of  all  that  he  could 
say.  The  determination  to  do  her  work  evenly  somehow 
brought  evenness  and  regularity  into  her  thoughts ;  and 
thus  she  succeeded  in  keeping  her  temper,  which  was  the 
chief  thing  she  was  aiming  at. 

Finally  she  was  gratified  to  see  the  doctor  draw  a  long 
breath  as  if  he,  too,  had  been  exerting  himself,  and  with 
a  final  glance,  either  of  defeat  or  threat,  he  left  the  room, 
and  Phoebe  Ellen  recovered  herself  at  her  leisure. 

The  third  day  came  without  alteration  in  Anriy's  con 
dition.  Phoebe  Ellen's  care  for  the  sick  girl  suffered  no 
diminution ;  the  food  was  administered  with  the  regu 
larity  of  clock-work,  the  bandages  were  changed  precise 
ly  as  the  doctor  ordered,  the  mechanism  of  the  sick 
room  moved  on  with  as  little  friction  as  if  the  entire 
thought  of  the  well  woman  were  expended  upon  the  com 
fort  of  the  sick  one.  Yet  in  fact  very  little  of  Phoebe 
Ellen's  solicitude  was  for  her  sister.  "  If  I  didn't  'tend 
to  'er  right,  that  man  'ud  be  shore  to  find  it  out,"  she 
thought.  "I  kin  guard  one  secret,  I  reckon,  but  I  couldn't 
keep  'im  out  o'  more  'n  that."  Her  thoughts  were  always 
upon  the  doctor  and  the  conditions  he  would  impose  upon 
their  intercourse.  She  waited  upon  the  invalid  with  her 
spine,  so  to  speak ;  but  her  brain  and  soul  were  directed 
with  all  the  energy  they  were  capable  of  towards  the  task 
of  complete  self-control. 

The  doctor  did  not  immediately  try  to  annoy  her  again. 


132 

They  met  each  other  quietly — so  quietly  tnat  their  atti 
tude  might  almost  be  called  a  pose — and  seemed  to  have 
no  other  thought  between  them  than  the  welfare  of  the 
patient.  Phoebe  Ellen  accepted  the  truce  with  readiness, 
but  she  watched  it  as  keenly  as  if  it  had  meant  open  hos 
tility.  She  was  glad  of  peace,  but  she  was  quite  prepared 
for  war. 

"He's  tried  Miss  Thompson  on  me,"  she  thought,  "  'n.' 
found  that  don't  disturb  me,  but  wot  if  he  was  to  take  to 
callin'  me  Anny  ?  He'll  do  it,  I  know ;  I  feel  it  comin'. 
'N'  he'll  try  to  do  it  onexpected,  when  he  kin  git  the  dis 
advantage  o7  me.  I'll  git  mad  then,  I  know — he's  been 
told  aforehand  that  '11  make  me  mad,  'n'  o'  course  it  will. 
'N'  if  I  git  mad,  wot  then  ?  'LI  he  be  so  scart  't  he'll  fer- 
git  to  try  to  find  out  my  secret  ?  I  doubt  it.  Lord,  wot 
will  happen  then  ?" 

The  best  plan  she  could  think  of  was  not  to  get  angry 
at  all,  but  to  simulate  a  rage  she  did  not  feel,  and  thus 
give  consistence  to  the  role  she  had  proposed  to  herself. 
With  this  idea  in  mind  she  rehearsed  the  impending  scene 
as  an  actor  might,  flinging  her  pretended  anger  into  words 
and  looks  and  gestures  which  she  made  to  resemble  as 
nearly  as  possible  her  genuine  anger  of  other  days,  as  she 
remembered  it.  She  brooded  over  this  denouement  when 
she  was  alone,  became  familiar  with  it,  incorporated  it 
into  the  substance  of  her  thought.  And  at  last  she  felt 
prepared. 

And  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  the  doctor,  lurch 
ing  about  in  his,  chair  after  his  examination  of  the  patient, 
turned  suddenly  on  her  with  the  question : 

"  These  days  of  waiting  must  wear  on  you  dreadfully, 
Miss  Anny  ?"  And  although  her  face  was  turned  in 
another  direction  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her,  opening 
slowly  and  revealing  vistas  of  unholy  light. 

She  was  wiping  a  glass  when  he  addressed  her,  but  she 
was  prepared.  Her  hand  did  not  tremble ;  there  was  110 


133 

danger  of  dropping  the  glass  and  breaking  it.  She  felt 
the  muscles  of  her  voice  altogether  under  her  control.  The 
first  words  of  the  harangue  she  had  prepared  came  to  her 
as  distinctly  as  if  they  had  been  written  on  the  wall,  and 
she  knew  that  the  others  would  follow.  She  felt  the 
power  in  her  to  deliver  that  speech,  and  to  deliver  it  well, 
and  she  opened  her  mouth  for  the  purpose.  But  nothing 
of  the  sort  happened.  At  that  instant  something  like  an 
inspiration  came  to  her.  To  her  own  surprise,  she  turned 
on  him  with  a  smile  of  perfect  good-nature,  and,  still  rub 
bing  her  glass,  said,  in  the  easiest  manner  in  the  world  : 

"I  knowed  that  was  coming  doctor.  I  reckon  ye  feel 
better  now  ?" 

He  was  nonplussed.  She  could  have  laughed  out  with 
joy  at  the  whole  transaction,  it  had  gone  off  so  smoothly, 
so  utterly  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  an  inspired  moment 
she  had  at  least  partly  undone  the  stupidity  of  her  request 
to  be  called  only  Miss  Thompson,  and  had  established  her 
self  on  the  old  basis  of  trusting  to  luck.  "  Now  if  sis 
wakes  up  in  'er  right  mind,  I  kin  swear  I  done  the  hull 
thing  out  o'  contrariness,  jes'  to  see  the  doctor  try  to  make 
me  mad/'  she  said  to  herself.  "  Anyway,  I'm  still  ahead. 
Every  time  I  rattle  'im,  the  less  shore  he'll  be  o'  hisself 
when  he  comes  at  me  agin." 

She  set  aside  her  glass  and  seated  herself,  facing  him. 

"Ye  do  feel  better,"  she  decided  with  ironical  com 
posure,  after  examining  him.  "I  kin  see  it  by  the  set  o' 
yer  hair." 

"You  don't  seem  to  resent  the  use  of  your  first  name 
so  violently  as  one  might  have  expected,"  he  remarked. 

"  Oh,  I  have  my  own  little  ways  o'  'musin'  myself,"  she 
answered,  in  a  voice  which  implied  that  he  had  done  pre 
cisely  as  she  wished  him  to  do. 

"  Amusing  yourself  ?"  he  repeated. 

She  pursed  up  her  lips  and  nodded  at  the  same  time. 

"Amusing  yourself  with  me  ?    How  do  you  mean  ?" 


134 


"Oh,  I  jes'  wanted  to  see  how  contrary  ye  could  be.  I 
made  shore  it  ud  be  funny." 

The  delicate  muscles  of  his  chin  gave  a  spasmodic 
jerk. 

"You  find  it  funny  ?" 

"  Dretf ul  funny  !     Why  not  ?" 

"Queer  !"  she  heard  him  mutter  to  himself. 

She  laughed  provokingly. 

"Ye  find  it  only  queer  ?"  she  asked.  "  To  me  it's  so 
funny  it's  fairly  comic." 

But  he  did  not  answer,  and  after  a  moment's  silence  she 
continued,  following  his  mechanical  glance  towards  the 
bed: 

"  She  don't  seem  to  be  comin'  to  'erself  so  very  fast, 
does  she  ?  We're  nearin'  the  end  o'  the  third  day.  How 
much  longer  d'  ye  give  this  sort  o'  thing  to  go  on  ?" 

"/give  ?  Talk  to  nature.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it." 

"  How  long  d'  ye  reckon  nater  is  goin'  to  keep  it  up, 
then  ?" 

He  rose,  twisting  his  thin  shoulders  about  in  his  loosely 
hanging  coat  and  scowling. 

"  Your  sister  may  not  wake  up  for  another  day.  I 
never  said  there  was  anything  certain  about  the  time." 

"Not  later  'n  to-morrer,  then  ?" 

"I  should  say  not." 

"  We're  to  call  ye  when  the  change  begins  ?" 

"  By  all  means." 

And  as  he  left  the  room  she  heard  him  once  more  mut 
ter  under  his  breath  the  single  word,  "  Queer  !" 

Again  she  laughed  out  in  half  -  contemptuous  enjoy 
ment. 

"  I'm  ahead  o' where  I  was  when  I  made  that  silly  wish 
to  be  called  Miss  Thompson,  anyhow,"  she  thought,  "  fer 
now  I've  puzzled  'im.  If  he  calls  me  Anny  now  I'll  jes' 
grin,  V  then  it  '11  be  easy  'nough  to  say,  if  I  have  to,  't  the 


135 

reason  I  kind  o'  half-way  passed  off  as  the  heiress  was  jes' 
to  git  a  bit  o'  Amusement  out  o'  the  doctor.  That  was  the 
best  way  out  o?  the  hull  bizness— that  way  o'  smilin'  at  'im. 
Well,  Fve  allus  heerd  as  the  devil  takes  keer  o'  his  own, 
V  now  they  ain't  a  doubt  about  it  in  my  mind — not  a 
doubt !" 


CHAPTER  XV 

SAM  watched  again  that  night.  Phoebe  Ellen  made 
him  promise  to  rouse  her  at  the  slightest  change,  but,, 
truth  to  tell,  it  was  chiefly  on  his  own  account  that  he 
hardly  took  his  eyes  from  the  bed  during  his  long  vigil. 
However,  no  change  occurred,  and  at  six  o'clock  next 
morning  Phoebe  Ellen  awoke  to  the  same  state  of  affairs 
that  had  prevailed  when  she  went  to  sleep. 

"This  'ere's  the  fourth  day,"  she  said,  after  Sam  had 
finished  his  account  of  the  night's  watch.  "  The  doctor 
said  she'd  shorely  rouse  up  on  the  fourth  day." 

Sam  looked  anxious. 

"I  shaVt  go  to  sleep  agin  till  it's  settled  one  way  or 
Another,"  he  declared. 

After  breakfast  they  sat  down  together  near  the  sick 
bed  and  talked.  They  could  decide  nothing,  of  course, 
but  it  did  them  good  to  rehearse  their  hopes  and  fears, 
and  wonder  about  this  and  that.  And  in  the  midst  of 
their  wonderings  and  hopings  the  doctor  came  in. 

"Ye  see,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  waving  her  hand  towards 
the  bed.  "  She's  jes'  the  same." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  doctor,  "but  she  must  not  be 
left  alone  a  minute  during  the  day.  She  may  open  her 
eyes  at  any  time.  And  some  one  must  be  on  hand  to 
look  after  her  !" 

"  S'posin'  she  was  to  come  to  fer  a  minute  V  then  fall 
asleep  agin  ?"  asked  Sam. 

Phoebe  Ellen  had  never  thought  of  that,  and  awaited 
the  doctor's  answer  with  interest. 

"No  harm  would  follow,  probably,  but  it  would  be 


137 


well  to  attract  her  attention  and  keep  her  awake  if  pos 
sible — at  least,  for  a  while." 
"  'W  if  we  should  fail,  she — " 
"  She  would  probably  awaken  later.     But — " 
"  She  might  not  ?" 

"  She  might  sleep  herself  to  death,"  was  the  doctor's 
answer. 

"We  mus'  'member  that,"  said  Sam  to  Phoebe  Ellen. 
The  doctor  left  the  room,  and  presently  was  visible  on 
a  rock  a  little  way  up  the  mountain -side,  dangling  his 
thin  legs  among  some  wild  sunflowers.  Phoebe  Ellen  sat 
down  by  the  window  and  took  up  her  mending,  while 
Sam  flung  himself  into  a  chair  by  the  table  in  full  view  of 
the  patient's  face.  His  cartridge-belt,  with  the  pistol 
thrust  into  it,  lay  at  his  side,  where  he  had  flung  it  the 
night  before  when  he  took  up  his  watch.  He  did  not  feel 
like  talking,  and  Phoebe  Ellen  respected  his  mood ;  so  he 
idly  fingered  the  cartridge-belt,  and  wondered,  with  an 
anxiety  which  was  softened  by  a  dreamy  languor  conse 
quent  on  his  long  vigil,  what  they  would  do  to  attract  the 
sick  girl's  attention  should  they  find  it  necessary  when 
she  awoke. 

There  was  a  little  nickel-plated  clock  in  the  room,  and 
its  ticking  multiplied  itself  in  a  loud,  hollow  resonance 
which  made  the  silence  heavy.  Sometimes  its  noise  grew 
hurried,  as  if  time  had  been  lost  and  must  be  made  up ; 
again  it  became  leisurely,  and  seemed  to  stop  and  yawn 
betweeii-whiles.  The  river  was  audible  as  a  faint  susurrus, 
which  at  times  deepened  to  a  monotone,  but  always  re 
turned  to  that  singularly  elemental  sound  so  common  in 
nature,  which  plainly  says,  "  Sh — sh  !"  The  pines,  too, 
were  vocal,  and  took  the  wind  with  a  dreamy  murmur 
which  left  the  mind  vacant  to  everything  but  the  lan 
guid  ecstasy  of  swaying  boughs  and  slumberous  shadows. 
Sometimes  the  river  and  the  pines  united  their  voices  in 
a  long,  wailing  cry,  which  rose  in  shrill  crescendo,  filled 


138 


the  sky  with  an  aerial  climax,  and  died  away  in  a  sound 
like  that  of  a  sublimated  trolley-car.  Sam  was  sleepy,  in 
spite  of  his  resolve  to  keep  awake.  The  ticking  of  the 
clock  went  on  with  a  somnolent  regularity  which  no 
longer  broke  into  hurry  or  weariness ;  its  clucking  per 
sistence  became  strangely  soothing ;  its  monotony  got 
into  his  eyes  and  breathing,  and  before  he  was  aware  of 
it  he  was  in  a  state  of  semi -consciousness.  His  eyes 
closed — uncertainly  at  first,  as  if  in  reflex  obedience  to  a 
memory  of  duty ;  then  more  and  more  heavily,  till  the 
lids  no  longer  trembled,  but  lay  quietly  closed,  not  exactly 
in  sleep,  but  in  that  intermediate  state  which  is  a  pure 
physical  enjoyment.  Sam  did  not  lose  consciousness ;  he 
knew  all  about  the  busy  figure  at  the  window,  the  sick 
girl  on  the  bed,  his  own  personality  propped  up  against 
the  table  on  one  unstable  elbow,  the  cartridge-belt  and 
pistol  at  his  side  ;  but  it  was  all  mingled  together  in  a 
happy  vagueness  which  was  as  enchanting  as  the  con 
dition  of  the  lotus-eaters,  who  saw  and  felt  and  heard, 
but  only  as  an  accompaniment  to  the  vacant  enjoyment  of 
utter  rest. 

A  lurch  of  his  elbow  brought  him  erect  in  his  seat  and 
staring.  He  had  a  wild  feeling  that  something  had  hap 
pened  ;  he  knew  where  he  was,  but  somehow  it  all  seemed 
new,  made  over  after  a  new  pattern.  He  did  not  turn  his 
head,  and  it  was  by  the  merest  accident  that  his  unwink 
ing  gaze  fastened  itself  upon  the  occupant  of  the  bed. 
And  he  saw,  with  a  thrill  of  horror,  that  the  invalid's  eyes 
were  open  in  a  wide  stare,  as  if  the  lids  had  been  drawn 
apart  by  the  contracting  chill  of  death  in  the  muscles. 
He  could  not  have  uttered  a  word  or  made  a  movement  to 
save  his  life.  Waking  thus  suddenly  and  meeting  that 
meaningless  glare  in  the  girl's  sightless  orbs,  he  felt  his 
throat  contracting  in  a  nightmare  struggle  to  cry  out. 
But  no  sound  came,  and  in  an  instant  the  effort  passed, 
though  not  the  horror  of  it,  and  he  was  able  to  withdraw 


139 


his  eyes,  with  a  stifling  inhalation,  to  the  spot  where 
Phoebe  Ellen  was  sitting.  The  sight  of  her  brought  him 
in  a  measure  to  himself.  She  was  sewing  placidly,  the 
morning  sunshine  making  a  strong  yellow  light  in  her 
hair.  He  had  time  to  think  that  the  patient  had  proba 
bly  opened  her  eyes  at  the  same  moment  as  himself,  for 
Phoebe  Ellen  was  watchful,  and  would  have  noticed  a 
moment  or  two  after  the  event  occurred. 

"She  ain't  dead,"  he  thought.  "She  can't  be  dead/' 
Something  in  the  effort  of  self-assurance  brought  him  to 
his  feet,  still  under  the  horrid  spell  of  his  awakening. 

"  She's  dead  !"  he  cried,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  in  direct  con 
tradiction  of  what  he  had  just  been  telling  himself.  And 
he  stood,  pointing. 

Phoebe  Ellen's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the  point 
ing  finger. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "She's  waked  up.  Go  fer  the 
doctor.  He's  in  his  room." 

The  calm,  business-like  tone  reassured  him,  and  he  was 
able  to  shake  off  his  horror.  He  left  the  room,  still  not 
quite  steadily,  but  with  an  awakening  sense  that  the  crisis 
had  come. 

Phoebe  Ellen  dropped  her  work  and  took  three  steps  to 
the  bedside.  In  doing  so  she  passed  between  the  patient 
and  the  light,  but  attracted  no  attention  from  the  staring 
eyes. 

"  They  can't  be  nothin'  wrong  with  'er,"  she  thought, 
as  she  reached  the  sick  girl's  side.  "  She's  a-breathin'  the 
same  's  ever." 

She  came  close  and  bent  down.  There  was  no  recogni 
tion  in  the  sightless  orbs — only  a  ghastly  stare,  fixed 
meaninglessly  upon  space. 

"  Sis  !"  she  called. 

There  was  no  sign  of  intelligence. 

"  Sis  !"  she  repeated  in  a  louder  voice. 

The  unwinking  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  vacancy. 


140 

"Sis  !"  she  cried.  "Wake  up  !  Wake  up  !  Don't  ye 
know  me  ?" 

But  the  same  vacant  apathy  was  her  only  response. 

All  at  once  a  wild  look  came  into  Phrebe  Ellen's  face — 
a  look  which  seemed  thrust  to  the  surface  -by  some  un 
holy  thought.  "If  she  was  to  fall  asleep  agin  she  might 
die.  That  wouldn't  be  my  fault.  If  the  doctor  V  Sam 
was  to  wait  long  'nough — could  I  manage  it  ?  I  might  try 
to  wake  'er,  ever  so  gently,  so  't  it  would  be  the  truth  if  I 
told  'em  I  tried.  They  ain't  no  harm  in  that,  nohow." 

She  glanced  fearfully  about  as  if  dreading  a  spy  upon 
her  actions.  The  door  was  closed  tightly — she  listened. 
Sam  and  the  doctor  were  not  yet  approaching — she  would 
be  able  to  hear  their  footsteps  on  the  uncarpeted  floor  of 
the  next  room  long  before  they  neared  the  door.  She 
bent  close  to  the  invalid's  ear,  intending  to  whisper  her 
name.  "  That  '11  be  'nough  to  sat'sfy  my  conscience,"  she 
thought,  with  a  guilty  tremor  at  her  heart.  But  the  next 
instant  her  better  nature  predominated,  and  she  found 
herself  shaking  Anny  violently  by  the  shoulder,  and  crying, 
in  a  shrill,  sharp  tone  : 

"  Sis  !  Sis  !  Why  don't  ye  wake  up  V  be  yerself  ?  It's 
me  't  '&  callin'  ye.  Don't  ye  know  me  ?" 

Was  she  mistaken  ?  Did  the  helpless  head  turn  a  little 
in  her  direction  ?  No  —  surely  it  could  not  be  ;  the  eyes 
were  as  lack-lustre  as  ever ;  there  was  the  same  look  in  all 
the  features  as  if  the  soul  had  fled  out  of  them  and  left 
only  their  familiar  lines  where  life  had  been. 

And  now  a  great  desire  took  possession  of  her  to  recall 
this  wandering  mind,  to  force  it  back  into  its  old  habitation 
and  make  it  take  up  its  accustomed  line  of  thought.  For 
a  moment  the  good  in  her  predominated  altogether,  and 
she  forgot  the  difficulties  she  might  be  preparing  for  her 
self  in  helping  her  sister  back  to  life. 

"  Sis  !"  she  repeated,  accompanying  the  word  with  an 
other  shake. 


141 

She  stood  erect,  the  better  to  observe  any  change  which 
might  occur.  Surely  the  eyes  had  narrowed  a  little  ;  they 
were  trying  to  fix  on  something  definite  close  at  hand  ! 

Had  she  understood  ?  Phoebe  Ellen's  heart  fluttered 
guiltily.  Then  a  sense  of  her  own  danger  came  back, 
and  the  possibility  that  Anny  might  wake  up  in  her  right 
mind  filled  her  with  dread.  She  had  never  realized  till 
that  moment  how  she  had  counted  on  the  doctor's  word, 
and  how  much  it  meant  to  her  that  she  should  enter  into 
her  sister's  name  and  place  in  the  world.  Would  it  riot 
have  been  better  to  make  true  the  first  murderous  thought 
of  the  morning  following  the  accident  ? 

But  even  with  this  horrid  regret  in  her  mind  she  went 
on  trying  to  awaken  the  unconscious  girl. 

"  Anny  I"  she  called,  uttering  her  sister's  name  for  the 
first  time.  What  if  the  doctor  and  Sam  should  hear? 
She  could  not  help  it.  A  power  stronger  than  herself 
was  driving  her  on. 

Now  the  staring  eyes  were  certainly  turned  towards  her. 

"  Ye  know  me  ?" 

There  was  no  response  to  the  question  but  another  effort 
of  readjustment  in  the  staring  orbs. 

"  Ye  know  me — yer  sister  Phoebe  Ellen  ?" 

The  effort  seemed  to  continue,  but  she  could  not  be 
sure.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  accidentally  have 
placed  herself  directly  in  the  girl's  sight,  and  that  she 
had  only  imagined  the  attempt  to  follow  her  movements. 
She  stood  a  little  to  one  side. 

"  Anny!"  she  called,  trying  to  attract  her  attention  in 
that  direction. 

The  eyes  did  not  really  move,  though  the  lids  fluttered, 
as  if  the  muscles  were  trying  to  adjust  themselves  to 
movement.  But  there  was  no  further  result  that  Phoebe 
Ellen  could  be  sure  of. 

"  Is  she  goin'  to  stay  awake,  I  wonder  ?  Why  don't  she 
do  one  thing  or  'nother,  anyway  ?  If  she  was  to  go  to  sleep 


142 


agin  afore  the  doctor  come  back  —  would  I  try  to  bender 
ber  ?  Course  I  would !  Ain't  she  my  own  sister  ?  But  I 
wonder  if  she  was  reely  tryin'  to  notice.  She  might  'a' 
been  jes'  tryin'  to  foller  the  noise,  'thout  'memberin'  her 
name  't  all,  so  that  ain't  no  sign  she's  comin'  to  herself. 
I  wouldn't  mind  much  wot  else  she  'membered  if  she'd 
only  fergit  'er  name  V  the  ownership  o'  the  ranch." 

Then  Sam's  heavy  steps  were  audible  in  the  next  room, 
mingled  with  the  light,  irregular,  dragging  sound  of  the 
doctors.  The  door  opened,  and  the  cowboy  entered  first. 
He  was  quite  himself  now. 

"  She's  still  awake  ?"  was  his  first  question. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Phoebe  Ellen,  bending  over  her  sister 
so  as  to  conceal  her  own  face.  "  But  I  can't  seem  to 
make  'er  see  me.  I  been  tryinV 

The  doctor  came  up.  Excitement  gave  a  momentary 
steadiness  to  his  nerves,  and  he  looked  almost  manly. 

"We  must  make  her  see  us,"  he  declared. 

He  brought  his  open  palm  close  to  the  girl's  eyes,  thrust 
ing  it  back  and  forth  threateningly,  but  the  dilated  pupils 
stared  straight  ahead  without  shrinking. 

"She  made  more  show  'n  that  when  I  hollered  at  'er," 
said  Phoebe  Ellen,  always  ready  to  disparage  any  move 
ment  of  the  doctor's. 

He  shook  out  a  red  shawl  in  the  patient's  range  of 
vision,  but  without  result. 

"Her  eyes  is  shorely  a-gittin'  duller,"  declared  Phoebe 
Ellen.  Her  words  expressed  a  secret  hope,  but  her  voice 
betrayed  only  anxiety. 

"  Is  she  blind — d'  ye  reckon  she's  waked  up  blind?"  she 
asked,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

And  the  doctor  answered :  "  No.  She  isn't  awake  yet, 
that  is  all.  We  must  rouse  her  in  some  way.  If  we  had 
a  bright  light—" 

"1Jd  the  candle  do  ?" 

"  Let  us  try  it,"  said  the  doctor. 


143 

The  candle  was  brought  and  lighted.  The  doctor  passed 
it  to  and  fro  before  the  patient's  eyes  so  closely  that  the 
glare  would  have  been  unbearable  to  the  ordinary  vision. 
Once  or  twice  a  slight  tremulousness  of  the  lids  was  per 
ceptible,  and  Sam  declared  he  had  caught  a  momentary 
frown  between  the  brows  ;  but  both  signs  were  too  elusive 
to  count  in  the  scale  of  returning  consciousness.  The 
pupils  remained  open  and  staring,  and  the  eyeballs  did  not 
turn.  Then,  even  while  they  wondered  at  the  insensibil 
ity  of  nerve  which  gave  no  sign  of  shrinking  before  that 
blaze  of  light,  the  patient  moved  her  head  slightly,  not  as 
if  to  avoid  the  glare,  but  wearily,  as  if  to  find  an  easier 
position  for  the  muscles  of  her  neck.  After  that  she 
nestled  her  head  slightly  among  the  pillows,  drew  up  her 
left  arm,  and  let  it  fall  upon  her  breast  with  a  sighing 
breath.  Then,  with  the  peculiar  tasting  movement  of  the 
lips  which  is  common  with  sleeping  people  who  have  been 
disturbed  and  who  are  settling  themselves  for  another 
nap,  she  turned  her  head  still  farther  to  one  side,  and  the 
eyes,  still  undisturbed  by  the  proximity  of  the  candle, 
closed  heavily  and  slowly. 

"  Be  ye  goin'  to  let  'er  go  off  agin  ?"  asked  Sam,  anx 
iously.  "  Didn't  ye  say  that  was  dangerous  ?" 

"It  must  be  stopped/'  answered  the  doctor,  with  deci 
sion.  "  We  must  get  her  attention  somehow." 

"  I  hollered  in  'er  ear  afore  ye  come  in,"  said  Phoebe 
Ellen.  "But  it  didn't  do  no  good.  She  was  as  deaf  as 
the  wall." 

"I  kin  go  ye  one  better  'n  hollering"  declared  Sam, 
seizing  his  pistol  and  dragging  it  from  its  belt  on  the 
table. 

Phoebe  Ellen  looked  as  if  about  to  protest,  but  the 
doctor  nodded  approval. 

"Wot  if  ye  was  to  skeer  'er  into  fits?"  Phoebe  Ellen 
demanded.  When  she  felt  like  protesting,  she  always 
did  it. 


144 

"Fits  is  easy  cured,"  declared  Sam.  "Shall  I  let  her 
drive  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Then  put  yer  hands  to  yer  ears." 

Arid  Phoebe  Ellen  and  the  doctor  obeyed. 

Sam  got  as  close  to  the  bed  as  possible,  aimed  the  pistol 
at  the  floor,  and  fired.  The  noise  in  the  little  room  was 
terrific ;  for  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  stand 
ing  inside  an  earthquake.  Then  the  deafness  which  fol- 
I  lowed  the  shock  filled  the  world  with  a  great  blank,  into 

which  they  seemed  to  be  dissolving.  But  presently  they 
remembered  what  it  was  all  about,  and  glanced  towards 
the  bed. 

The  patient  was  sitting  up  and  rolling  her  eyes  about. 
She  was  holding  both  hands  to  her  ears  in  a  sort  of  spasm, 
thus  indicating  that  she  had  located  the  sound  somewhere 
outside  herself.  But  that  she  was  unaware  of  anything 
more  definite  than  a  crash  of  the  nerves,  a  shock  which  had 
left  every  muscle  quivering,  was  evinced  by  the  meaning 
less,  void  gaze  which  wandered  about  in  search  of  what 
had  aroused  her,  but  was  incapable  of  directing  itself  to 
any  reasonable  explanation.  The  only  expression  on  her 
face  was  one  of  helpless  terror,  and  that  was  pitiful  beyond 
the  power  of  words.  The  whole  occurrence  was  like  a 
child's  first  experience  of  pain,  which  confuses  and  terri 
fies,  but  has  no  meaning  beyond  a  rending  shock. 

Phcebe  Ellen  seated  herself  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
put  her  arms  around  her  sister. 

"  There,  there,  sis,"  she  kept  repeating,  in  a  soothing 
voice.  "There,  there  !" 

She  became  so  interested  in  pacifying  the  terrified 
creature  that  she  forgot  her  own  interest  in  the  issue. 

"  There,  there  !  Don't  be  skeert.  It  won't  hurt  ye — 
it  waVt  nothin'  to  take  on  about.  Don't  ye  see  ?  We 
done  it  a-purpose  to  rouse  ye  up.  We  won't  do  it  no 


145 


The  invalid  did  not  look  at  her  or  seem  to  have  any 
curiosity  as  to  who  was  near ;  but  that  she  noticed  and  was 
comforted  was  evident  from  her  leaning  in  Phoebe  Ellen's 
direction,  as  a  frightened  child  might  do  when  mutely 
craving  protection.  Phoebe  Ellen  put  her  arms  more 
closely  about  her  and  held  her  thus,  saying  : 

"  Did  it  skeer  ye,  sis  ?  Did  it  make  ye  mos'  jump  out 
o'  yer  five  senses  ?  Well,  it  was  horrid,  but  we  had  to 
rouse  ye  up.  There  !  Now  ye  feel  better,  don't  ye  ? 
Now  ye  ain't  so  skeert  ?  See,  it's  me  't  's  with  ye — look 
up.  Don't  ye  know  me  ?" 

The  words  and  tone  were  perfectly  natural,  for  Phoebe 
Ellen  was  altogether  in  earnest.  She  had  forgotten  every 
thing  but  that  her  sister  was  weak  and  ill  and  terrified  and 
needed  comfort  and  encouragement.  There  was  no  danger 
of  the  doctor  just  then,  for  her  strong  and  simple  emotion 
of  pity  excluded  all  consciousness  of  intrigue  and  wrong 
doing,  and  had  he  chosen  to  read  her  thoughts,  he  would 
have  found  nothing  of  which  she  need  be  ashamed.  He 
was,  however,  even  more  deeply  occupied  for  the  time 
being  than  she.  The  explosion  of  the  gun  in  his  vicinity 
had  given  his  nerves  a  shock  which,  had  he  estimated  its 
intensity  beforehand,  he  would  have  avoided  by  flight. 
He  felt  shattered,  unable  to  concentrate  his  thoughts 
upon  anything,  least  of  all  upon  an  experiment  in  mind- 
reading  whose  outcome  was  at  best  problematic. 

He  sank  into  a  chair  and  lay  there  gasping  and  quiver 
ing. 

"  Good  Lord,  Tinker  !"  he  finally  cried,  still  holding  his 
hands  to  his  ears.  "  What  kind  of  a  gun  do  you  carry, 
anyway  ?  It  couldn't  be  anything  less  than  a  mountain 
howitzer  !" 

Sam  did  not  answer  or  notice.  His  eyes  were  upon  the 
patient,  who  had  nestled  closer  and  closer  to  Phoebe  Ellen, 
until,  as  if  vaguely  assured  of  her  safety,  she  began  to  wail  in 

a  strange,  high  key,  like  the  cry  of  a  little  child  when  the 
10 


146 

world  first  comes  in  contact  with  it  and  makes  it  suffer. 
It  was  pitiful,  but  uncanny.  Sam  listened  with  a  sense 
of  chill,  as  to  something  supernatural ;  but  even  as  he  lis 
tened,  the  unused  voice  deepened,  the  wail  shattered  itself 
into  sobs,  and  the  weeping  of  the  woman  was  audible  where 
the  wail  of  the  child  had  been. 

"  That  is  horrible  I"  cried  Sam,  turning  to  the  doctor 
for  an  explanation.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

The  consumptive  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  speak, 
though  brokenly. 

"  It  means  that  her  crying  is  typical  of  everything  in 
her  future  ;  that  her  mind  is  utterly  gone  ;  that  she  has 
become  a  child  again — " 

"  That  she  won't  never  know  nothin',  ye  mean  ?" 

"  She  will  learn  some  things — some  very  simple  things ; 
but  they  will  be  like  her  crying —  she  will  begin  them  as 
a  child,  and  sometimes,  not  always,  will  carry  them  to  the 
condition  of  that  womanhood  which  she  has  lost.  She 
must  begin  everything  over  again,  and  the  point  she  will 
be  able  to  attain  can  only  be  a  matter  of  conjecture/5 

Phoebe  Ellen  uttered  an  involuntary  cry  of  protest. 

"You  seem  to  care,"  he  said,  evidently  remembering 
something  he  had  fancied  he  had  read  in  her  thoughts 
days  ago. 

"  Care  ?"  she  cried,  indignantly.  "  Ain't  she  my 
sister  ?" 

"  Queer  !"  she  heard  him  mutter  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

< '  ARTER  all,  it's  wot  I  expected/'  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  after 
a  pause.  She  began  to  remember  that  the  doctor  was  her 
enemy,  and  that  she  had  to  look  out  for  him ;  but  after 
glancing  him  over,  it  became  evident  that  she  had  nothing 
to  fear.  He  was  too  shattered  to  exert  his  power,  what 
ever  its  nature  or  object ;  his  voice  shook  when  he  tried 
to  speak,  and  the  vacant  stammer  of  weakness  interrupted 
his  words. 

"  We  orter  be  thankful  even  fer  so  much,"  said  Sam,  in 
a  low  voice.  "I'm  glad  to  have  'er  alive  on  any  terms." 

"It's  better  'n  I  expected,"  Phoebe  Ellen  declared. 

"Hang  that  gun  of  yours  !"  chattered  the  doctor.  "It 
struck  the  house  like  a  clap  of  thunder.  The  least  you 
can  do  now  is  to  help  me  to  my  room.  Great  heavens ! 
Why  not  kill  a  man  at  once  ?  I  can't  walk  !" 

"  Shall  I  kerry  ye  ?"  asked  Sam,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
every-day  occurrence  to  carry  full-grown  men  about  the 
house.  And  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  lifted  the 
consumptive  and  settled  him  in  one  arm  as  if  he  had  been 
a  baby. 

The  doctor  half  grinned,  but  did  not  rebel. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said.  "  If  I  had  your  strength  I'd  move 
the  world.  There's  some  brandy  in  my  room  that  will  set 
me  up  again.  Heavens,  what  shoulders  you  have  !  If 
she  wants  to  go  to  sleep  after  this,"  he  had  turned  to 
Phoebe  Ellen  with  his  thin  face  in  proximity  to  Sam's  big 
neck,  "you  may  let  her.  It  will  be  a  natural  sleep,  and 
she  will  awake  from  it  naturally.  I  sha'n't  see  her  again 
for  some  little  time — I  shall  have  enough  to  do  to  get  over 


148 


the  effects  of  that  infernal  gun.  What's  the  use  of  a 
man's  carrying  a  whole  Fourth  of  July  around  in  a  gun- 
barrel,  anyway  ?" 

"  Ye're  shore  she'll  never  be  'erself  agin  ?"  Phoabe  El 
len  asked  as  the  two  men  reached  the  door.  The  question 
came*of  itself,  and  a  thrill  of  dread  went  through  her  be 
fore  it  had  passed  her  lips  lest  the  doctor  should  detect 
the  eager  hope  behind  it. 

But  he  noticed  nothing. 

"  Sure/'  he  answered.  And  then  Sam  bore  him  from 
the  room,  a  creature  who  seemed  made  up  of  nothing  but 
staring  eyes  and  dangling  arms  and  legs. 

Phoebe  Ellen  found  herself  alone  with  her  sister,  but 
with  none  of  the  elation  she  had  expected  to  feel  at  the 
final  settlement  of  all  her  doubts.  She  had  expected  to 
rise  from  that  assurance  serene  and  dominant,  with  a 
scope  of  established  power  which  would  embrace  the  en 
tire  future  and  make  life  delightful.  But  with  her  arms 
about  the  sick  girl,  and  the  sound  of  her  subsiding  sobs 
in  her  ears,  she  could  feel  nothing  but  a  great  pity  for 
the  ruined  life  upon  which  her  own  prosperity  was  to  be 
built. 

"  Pore  sis!  pore  sis  !"  she  kept  repeating  with  genuine 
sorrow.  And  in  the  same  breath  she  was  thinking,  "  I'm 
mistress  o'  the  ranch  now.  Sam's  the  overseer.  We'll 
run  it  together — us  two  !" 

She  would  be  good  to  Anny — poor  Anny,  who  had  lost 
so  much  and  who  would  never  be  herself  again.  But  the 
generous  outrush  of  loving  protection  was  never  altogeth 
er  unhindered  in  its  course  by  another  thought.  "I'll 
have  a  heap  better  chance  with  Sam  now.  He  liked  sis — I 
know  he  did.  But  he'd  never  think  o'  marryin'  a  idiot." 

At  last  Army's  sobs  subsided  into  short,  sharp  catches 
of  the  breath  in  the  throat ;  finally  these,  too,  became  less 
vehement,  and  only  an  agitated  rising  and  falling  of  the 
breast  remained  of  the  sick  girl's  terror.  Her  eyes  had 


149 


not  closed,  and  there  was  no  symptom  of  sleep  in  the  staring 
orbs  ;  neither  was  there  sign  of  intelligent  consciousness. 
The  vital  functions  were  all  alive  and  active,  but  behind 
the  physical  awakening  the  intellect  lay  dead — shocked 
into  inactivity,  like  some  delicate  piece  of  mechanism 
when  dropped,  though  still  unbroken. 

' i  S'posin'  I  try  to  see  if  she  knows  anything/'  thought 
Phoebe  Ellen.  "  She's  shorely  awake,  V  I  reckon  she 
ain't  tired.  I'll  see." 

She  held  the  girl  off  at  arm's-length  and  looked  at  her. 

"  If  I  could  make  'er  see  me,  she  might  reco'nize  me  in 
spite  o'  the  doctor,"  she  thought.  "'N'  then  where 'ud  I 
be  ?" 

She  brought  her  face  into  focus  with  the  wide-open 
eyes,  determined  to  make  them  see  her.  But  they  only 
stared,  they  did  not  notice. 

Then  she  began  to  speak. 

"  Look  at  me,  sis,"  she  said.  "No,  not  there  \"  The 
sightless  eyes  turned  indifferently  towards  the  wall  or  the 
ceiling  as  the  head  rolled  helplessly  about.  Phoebe  Ellen 
braced  the  flaccid  neck  against  her  arm,  and  steadied  the 
head  so  that  the  eyes  looked  fully  into  hers.  "There! 
Can't  ye  see  me  now  ?" 

She  might  as  well  have  talked  to  a  stick  or  a  stone,  but 
the  effort  of  speech  steadied  her  own  actions  and  made 
them  logical.  "  If  she  kin  be  made  to  notice,  I'm  goin' 
to  make  'er  do  it,"  she  thought.  "  Pore  sis  !  I  mus* 
learn  'er  all  I  kin,  fer  she'll  be  less  trouble.  Besides, 
she'll  be  happier ;  'n'  I  want  'er  to  git  back  all  she  kin 
'thout  makin'  it  too  warm  fer  me." 

She  tried  a  dozen  different  ways  of  attracting  the  girl's 
attention,  and  gradually,  as  she  gazed  into  the  unrespon 
sive  eyes,  she  caught  a  hint  of  life  in  the  slumbering  soul ; 
an  atom  of  intelligence,  manifesting  itself,  as  it  were,  in 
a  point  of  life  far  back  in  the  brain,  a  spark  flickering 
faintly  out  of  the  depths  of  vacancy.  It  grew  to  a  speck, 


150 

a  luminous  blur  which  the  gazer  could  be  sure  of.  It 
wavered,  turned  back,  swayed  aside,  seemed  all  but  lost. 
There  was  nothing  clear  and  definite  about  it.  But  it 
was  intelligent  and  responsive.  It  seemed  in  search  of 
something. 

"She  sees  me,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen  to  herself.  "But 
she  don't  look  like  she  knows  me." 

She  moved  a  little  to  one  side  ;  the  luminous  speck  fol 
lowed  her.  She  drew  back  ;  it  followed  her  still. 

"The  doctor's  right,"  she  concluded.  "She  won't  be 
a  fool,  but  she's  got  to  begin  all  over.  That  bright  little 
spark  in  'er  eyes  kin  be  made  to  grow.  But  how  much  ? 
That's  the  question." 

She  varied  her  experiment  in  many  ways,  and  was  re 
joiced  as  a  mother  is  in  watching  a  child's  first  efforts  at 
attention  ;  but  even  in  the  midst  of  her  pleasure  came  the 
wickedly  calculating  thought :  "  The  spark  won't  grow 
too  big  fer  my  convenience  ;  I'm  dead  shore  o'  that,  fer 
the  doctor  told  me.  But  if  it  should — " 

She  glanced  away  from  her  sister  and  fetched  a  deep 
breath. 

"  If  it  should — I  could  find  a  way  to  stop  it." 

Again  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  sick  girl  with  kindly 
interest. 

"She'll  soon  foller  things,"  she  thought.  "She  don't 
tire  nothin'  like  's  quick  's  wot  a  baby  does.  'N'  I'll  do 
my  best  to  learn  'er  —  I  reely  will.  The  best  won't  be 
nothin'  't  '11  tell  agin  me.  It's  a  God's  blessin'  she  kin 
learn.  I  reckon  it  won't  be  no  great  shakes,  nohow.  9W 
I'll  do  my  dooty  by  'er,  wotever  comes." 

Satisfied  with  her  experiments  thus  far,  she  determined 
to  go  further.  She  lifted  one  of  the  limp  hands  and  held 
it  up  in  the  girl's  range  of  vision.  After  a  minute's  vague 
search  the  wandering  eyes  found  it,  and  examined  it  with 
the  gravity  of  a  child  who  has  just  discovered  its  fingers. 
Phoabe  Ellen  let  the  hand  go,  and  it  fell  helplessly  upon 


151 


the  bedclothes  ;  the  eyes  tried  to  follow  it,  but  failed, 
and  gazed  about  with  a  puzzled  expression.  The  experi 
ment  was  repeated  two  or  three  times,  and  finally  the  eyes 
followed  the  hand  in  its  fall,  and  rested  curiously  upon  it 
where  it  lay  upon  the  bed-coverings.  Two  or  three  times 
more  Phoebe  Ellen  lifted  it  and  dropped  it,  with  the  re 
sult  that  the  eyes  were  able  to  keep  it  in  view,  but  each 
time  with  increasing  quickness.  Finally  the  invalid,  in 
stead  of  letting  her  hand  fall,  held  it  aloft  when  Phoebe 
Ellen  released  it,  and  the  eyes  examined  it  with  sober 
curiosity  while  the  fingers  worked  a  little.  Then  a  slow 
smile  overspread  the  features,  whose  vacancy  had  given 
place  to  an  inquiring  seriousness — not  a  smile  of  appreci 
ation  nor  one  demanding  sympathy,  but  a  smile  which 
vaguely  recognized  the  first  successful  outworking  of  the 
individual  will.  It  was  very  pitiful — that  childish  smile 
on  the  mature  features  of  the  woman. 

All  this  time  Phoebe  Ellen  had  been  sustaining  her  sister 
in  an  erect  position  by  her  right  arm,  but  now  she  gradu 
ally  withdrew  that  support,  being  careful  to  leave  the  sit 
ting  figure  in  balance.  But  her  care  was  ineffectual,  the 
form  wavered  and  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  caught 
it  once  more  and  eased  it  down  among  the  pillows. 

"Pore  thing  !"  she  thought,  with  a  great  pity.  "She's 
even  got  to  learn  to  set  alone !" 

She  had  expected  some  demonstration  of  fear  from  the 
toppling  sensation  which  must  have  been  experienced  by 
the  invalid,  but  there  came  no  stronger  expression  into 
the  face  than  a  vaguely  puzzled  look,  which  gradually  set 
tled  into  the  level  lines  of  content  as  the  stable  softness 
of  the  pillows  became  a  thing  to  rely  upon.  Phoebe  Ellen 
did  not  disturb  her  again. 

"  I  mustn't  tire  'er/'  she  thought.  "  That's  'nough  fer 
this  time." 

And  she  leaned  forward,  gazing  with  an  almost  motherly 
tenderness  into  the  half -conscious,  wide  eyes.  The  look 


152 


of  content  on  the  invalid's  face  deepened  as  Phoebe  Ellen 
gazed,  and  took  on  something  more  spiritual  than  the 
animal  satisfaction  which  had  been  visible  when  she  first 
settled  back  among  the  pillows. 

"  Kin  it  be  she's  learnin'  to  keer  fer  me  ?"  thought 
Phoebe  Ellen,  with  a  strange  thrill.  "  If  she  should,  I 
b'lieve  I  could  like  'er  better  'n  I  done  when  she  was 
well.  But  it  'ud  be  queer — 'most  like  she  was  my  own 
child  !" 

With  a  sudden  impulse  of  tenderness  she  lifted  Anny's 
hand  and  laid  the  palm  to  her  cheek,  rubbing  it  softly 
about.  Then  she  left  the  hand  to  itself.  For  a  moment 
it  remained  there,  then  it  stirred  softly,  moving  back  and 
forth.  And  Phoebe  Ellen  saw  that  she  was  smiling  con 
tentedly,  and  with  a  new  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  She's  learnin'  to  keer  fer  me  !"  she  thought,  with  de 
light. 

She  bent  over  and  kissed  her  on  mouth  and  forehead — 
an  act  of  demonstrative  fondness  of  which  she  had  riot 
been  guilty  for  years.  Then  she  rose,  rubbed  her  eyes, 
and  moved  aimlessly  about  the  room. 

"I'll  be  good  to  her  !"  she  kept  repeating  to  herself. 

Presently  she  thought  of  feeding  her,  and  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  have  Leatherhead  prepare  some  gruel.  When 
she  came  back,  Anny  was  still  awake. 

Then  she  fed  her,  and  the  gruel  was  devoured  greedily. 

"That's  right,"  was  Phoebe  Ellen's  approving  comment. 
"'N'  now  it 'ud  be  best  fer  her  to  go  to  sleep."  And 
she  adjusted  the  limp  head  upon  the  pillow  and  left  her. 
Then  she  went  out  into  the  kitchen  to  leave  the  empty 
gruel-bowl,  and  when  she  came  back  the  invalid  was  fast 
asleep. 

By-and-by  Sam  came  in  to  inquire  after  the  patient, 
and  they  two  stood  by  the  bedside  and  discussed  the  case 
in  whispers. 

"  By-the-way,"  said   Sam,  when  they  had    exhausted 


153 


their  subject,  "  Pete  Hawkins  was  over  'ere  to-day,  and 
he  says  Pinky's  sick." 

"Pinky?     Oh  yes.     Pinky  Rose  ?" 

"  Ye'd  fergot  'im  ?"  smiled  Sam. 

"Well,  ye  must  own  up  Fve  been  purty  busy.  Much 
sick  ?  I  hope  not." 

"A  bad  cold.  He  wanted  Pete  to  tell  ye,  so  't  ye 
wouldn't  think  it  queer  he  hadn't  been  over." 

"Oh,  /  wouldn't  think  it  queer.  I  wouldn't  think 
nothin'  'bout  it." 

"Well,  it's  purty  plain  he  was  thinkin'  'bout  it.  He 
hopes  to  be  over  in  a  few  days." 

"  Oh,  well.     0'  course.     I'll  be  glad  to  see  'im." 

"Is  she  puttin'  that  on  ?"  wondered  Sam.  "Or  is  it 
simon-pure  don't-care  ?" 

"'Tain't  noways  likely  nobody  '11  have  to  set  up  with 
'er  agin,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  dismissing  Pinky  with  a  jerk 
of  her  head  in  Anny's  direction.  "She'll  prob'ly  go  to 
sleep  early  in  the  evenin'  'n'  rest  like  a  child  till  mornin'." 

After  that,  Sam  went  out  to  the  barn  to  take  his  nap, 
and  Phoebe  Ellen  sat  down  by  the  window  for  a  period  of 
self-communion. 

"I  wonder  if  he  reckons  I'm  in  love  with  Pinky  Rose," 
she  meditated.  "If  he  does,  he's  mistook,  that's  all. 
To  be  shore,  Pinky  ain't  so  bad  's  wot  he  might  be  ;  a 
woomarn  could  manage  'im  'thout  any  trouble.  Yes,  he'd 
be  a  reg'lar  lamb  f er  managin' ;  'n'  that's  the  kind  o'  man 
I'd  marry  if  I  hadn't  ruther  have  one  't  could  manage  me. 
Well,  they's  plenty  o'  time  to  settle  that." 

She  leaned  against  the  window-frame,  gazing  out  at  the 
rocks  and  shadows. 

"Things  seems  to  be  comin'  jes'  my  way,"  she  con 
tinued.  "I've  got  everything  I  planned  fer — the  ranch  '11' 
everything,  'n'  nobody  to  say  a  word  agin  it.  Nobody  but 
the  doctor,  'n'  he  don't  count ;  I'm  ekal  to  forty  consump 
tive  doctors  from  Boston,  'n'  he  knows  it.  Nobody  '11  ever 


154 


guess  the  truth  about  the  bizness.  How  queer  to  have  a 
secret  like  that,  'thout  the  least  chance  o'  its  gittin'  out ! 
The  only  chance  is  through  him — V  sech  a  little  chance  ! 
He'll  go  back  to  Halstead's  now ;  V  when  I  see  'irn,  as  I 
reckon  Fll  have  to  wunst  in  a  while,  I'll  keep  my  wits 
about  me,  'n'  if  I  can't  hold  'im  down,  my  name  is  Anny 
Thompson  fer  shore  !  Somehow  I  don't  feel  sot  up  like 
I  reckoned  I'd  be.  I  wonder  how  that  is  ?  Mebbe  it's 
'cause  I'm  so  downright  sorry  fer  sis  't  I  can't  reely  take 
in  the  meanin'  o'  the  rest.  Then,  too,  'pears  like  it  jes' 
come  nat'ral  fer  me  to  own  the  ranch.  Wot  if  I'd  pizened 
'er  that  mornin'  when  the  idee  come  into  my  head  ?"  She 
shivered  at  the  thought.  "  Then  I  would  V  had  suthin' 
to  think  about.  But  now  I  'ain't  done  nobody  no  harm. 
She  couldn't  see  to  things  nohow,  not  if  it  was  known  't 
everything  b'longed  to  'er.  The  bossin"ud  fall  on  me  jes' 
's  much  's  it  will  now  when  everybody  b'lieves  the  hull 
thing  is  mine.  'N'  so  everything  's  all  right,  'n'  nobody  '11 
ever  know.  Queer,  how  Pinky  took  me  fer  Anny  from  the 
start.  'N'  Sam,  too.  Tears  like  they  was  a  kind  o'  Prov 
idence  in  it." 

She  stirred  restlessly  at  the  window  and  began  to  beat 
a  tattoo  on  the  pane. 

"I  don't  feel  like  sewin'  jes'  yet.  Wot  shall  I  do  ?  Say 
—  wot  a  idiot  I  be,  anyhow  !  Here  I've  been  'ere  four 
days  V  'ain't  been  over  the  house  yit,  V  'ain't  got  no 
more  idee  o'  wot's  in  it  beyend  the  kitchen  'n  's  if  it 
b'longed  to  the  Queen  o'  Sheeby.  That's  jes'  wot  I'll 
do  —  I'll  go  'n'  take  a  look  at  the  rooms  while  sis  is 
sleepinV 

In  the  aspect  of  the  house  she  found  little  either  to 
praise  or  condemn.  "  It's  's  good  '&  wot  ye  could  expeck 
from  a  passel  o'  men  keepin'  house  together/'  was  her 
comment.  Somewhere  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  however, 
she  heard  a  noise  above  her  which  attracted  her  attention. 
A  trap-door  was  open  in  the  ceiling,  evidently  leading  to 


155 


a  garret.  She  placed  one  hand  on  the  ladder,  and  stood 
gazing  up  and  listening. 

"Who's  there  ?"  she  called,  as  she  once  more  heard 
some  one  moving. 

"  Oh,  it's  Leatherhead,"  she  concluded,  recognizing  the 
irregular,  irresponsible  tread. 

A  moment  later  he  appeared  at  the  trap-door. 

"Oh,  tripe  I"  he  called  down.  "  That  you  ?  Anything 
wanted  ?" 

"Nothin',"  was  her  answering  call.  "Wot  ye  doin'  up 
there  ?" 

"I  was  lookin'  arter  some  o'  the  doctor's  truck.  Want 
to  come  up  V  see  ?  The  ladder's  safe  's  Moffatt's  Bank." 

"  Truck  ?  Wot  kind  o'  truck  ?"  She  was  already  as 
cending  the  ladder,  and  in  a  moment  was  peering  into  the 
garret  on  a  level  with  Leatherhead's  feet. 

The  place  was  dimly  illuminated  by  four  small  dusty 
panes  of  glass  at  the  far  end.  There  was  absolutely  noth 
ing  to  be  seen  but  small  heaps  of  weeds,  which  seemed  to 
have  been  spread  out  here  and  there  for  the  purpose  of 
drying. 

"  Oh,  that  stuff,"  added  Phoebe  Ellen,  after  taking  in 
the  room  and  its  contents.  "Wot  is  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  say  !"  objected  Leatherhead.  "  You  know  wot 
that  is.  Everybody  knows  loco-weed." 

"  Never  heerd  o'  it  afore.     Loco-weed  ?" 

"  Well,  tripe !  Never  heerd  o'  loco-weed  ?  It  grows 
everywheres." 

"  Wot's  it  fer,  anyhow?" 

"  Well,  ye'd  know  if  ye  seen  a  steer 't  happened  to  git  a 
holt  o'  a  wad  o'  it  by  mistake.  To  see  'im  hump  V  throw 
hisself,  V  stop  V  glare  like  he  seen  a  ghost,  then  fling 
his  heels  in  the  air  '11'  snort  'n'  nourish  his  tail !  Well ! 
Loco-weed  is  wot  sets  the  cattle  crazy — that's  wot.  Jest 
a  little  while  afore  ye  come — " 

"  No  matter  !    Wot's  the  doctor  dryin'  it  fer  ?" 


156 


"  He's  agoin'  to  send  a  lot  o'  it  to  Boston  to  a  friend  to 
find  out  wot's  in  it  to  make  the  cattle  go  crazy.  He  got 
me  to  gather  it  fer  'im — he  says  it  grows  ranker  'ere  'n 
_over  to  Halstead's." 

"  Find  out  wot's  in  it  ?     How  kin  they  do  that  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Leatherhead,  with  an  educational  air, 
"  it's  the  chemistry.  That's  wot  he  said — the  chemistry. 
I  tuck  it  he  meant  the  colorin'  o'  the  leaf,  but  anyways 
that's  wot  he  said.  To  pay  express  on  a  lot  o'  weeds  like 
that,  clear  to  Boston  —  say  !  He  give  me  a  half  a  dollar, 
though,  chemistry  or  no  chemistry.  'N'  that's  suthin'  a 
feller  don't  find  rollin'  up  hill  every  day  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  meditated. 

"'lid the  stuff  make  folks  crazy,  too,  <T  ye  know  ?" 

' { Folks  ?  I  never  heerd,  but  I  don't  see  why  not.  Is 
folks  stronger  'n  steers  't  the  same  truck  won't  set  'ern  off 
their  heads  ?  Excuse  me  from  havin'  it  tried  on  me  /" 

Phoebe  Ellen  went  back  to  the  room  where  Anny  lay. 
She  stood  examining  her  sister  for  some  time. 

"  That  *ud  be  better  'n  pizen,"  she  finally  muttered, 
half  aloud.  "But  wot  makes  me  think  o'  sech  things 
now  ?  It's  all  settled  —  they  ain't  no  danger  any  more. 
Good  Lord,  wot  a  sinner  I'm  gittiii'  to  be  !" 


CHAPTER   XVII 

IT  is  usually  believed  that  the  consequences  of  evil- 
doing  lie  in  the  direction  of  the  deed;  that  the  moral 
state  following  a  wicked  act  is  retrograde,  and  that  a  bad 
action  is  the  harbinger  of  worse.  This  is  true  up  to  the 
point  of  reaction ;  by  which  is  meant  the  point  at  which 
wickedness  sees  no  advantage  in  becoming  more  wicked, 
but  rather  in  curtailing  itself  and  assuming,  in  appear 
ance  at  least,  the  qualities  of  its  shining  opposite.  Some 
sinners  never  attain  even  to  the  semblance  of  virtue,  be 
cause  the  devil  appears  to  them  in  many  shapes  and  offers 
them  rewards  beyond  the  attainment  of  even  moderate 
respectability ;  and  it  is  to  the  sinful  persistence  of  this 
class  that  the  proverb  owes  its  force  and  value.  But  to 
the  majority  of  mankind  evil  beyond  evil  assumes  a  threat 
ening  aspect,  and  we  assume  a  virtue  though  we  have  it 
not,  from  very  fear. 

Something  of  this  sort  happened  to  Phoebe  Ellen.  The 
assurance  of  an  established  position  at  the  ranch  softened 
and  sweetened  her,  Sam  noticed  the  change,  and,  though 
he  had  been  by  no  means  predisposed  in  her  favor,  was 
obliged  to  admit  that  she  was  changing  for  the  better. 
She  was  less  assertive,  less  inclined  to  dominate,  less  in 
sistent  on  rising  to  the  emergency  when  the  emergency 
was  not  there.  She  was  gentler,  more  pliable.  Her  voice 
grew  less  strenuous  in  self-assertion ;  the  habitual  line  of 
her  mouth  became  horizontal,  with  a  more  frequent  up 
ward  curve  ;  her  eyes  looked  less  hard  and  defiant ;  in 
talking,  she  struggled  into  a  more  frequent  comprehen- 


158 


sion  of  other  people's  views ;  and  when  she  argued  she  in 
sisted  less  on  her  own  way  than  on  the  way  that  was  right 
or  expedient.  She  did  little  things  for  people  which  she 
had  never  thought  of  doing  before.  She  scolded  a  good 
deal  —  that  is,  for  an  average  woman,  but  for  herself  it 
was  hardly  more  than  the  feeble  survival  of  a  habit,  and 
no  one  minded.  In  Colorado  it  is  tacitly  admitted  that 
everybody  one  meets  is  a  "crank/'  and  worse  offences 
than  mere  words  arrange  themselves  easily  on  that  basis. 
But  it  was  noticeable  that  Phoebe  Ellen  never  scolded 
Sam.  Leatherhead  and  the  boys  on  the  range  had  their 
opinions  as  to  the  cause  of  this  partiality,  and  it  must  be 
admitted  that  their  judgment  was  based  on  sound  induc 
tions.  They  had  heard  of  Sam's  victory  at  the  depot  — 
which  coincided  with  their  preconceived  notion  of  the 
condition  under  which  a  high-spirited  woman  ought  to 
fall  in  love.  She  sewed  on  his  buttons,  and  had  been 
seen  brushing  his  sombrero  for  him.  She  gave  him 
a  smoky -topaz  charm  for  his  watch-chain — a  trinket 
which  had  belonged  to  her  dead  brother;  and  in  fact 
showed  an  open  preference  for  him  which  placed  the  state 
of  her  affections  altogether  outside  the  realm  of  mere  sur 
mise.  And  it  was  noted  with  no  less  interest  that  there 
was  nothing  in  Sam's  treatment  of  her  that  would  lead 
her  to  imagine  him  a  victim  of  her  wealth  and  softening 
charms. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  how  much  of  Phoebe 
Ellen's  improved  manner  depended  upon  her  regard  for 
Sam  ;  probably  it  was  considerable  ;  for  the  most  busi 
ness-like  of  women  becomes  gentle  in  proportion  as  her 
heart  is  engaged.  But  there  was  another  element  in  the 
complex  of  mental  and  moral  processes  which  lay  at  the 
root  of  the  change,  and  that  was  conscience.  Phoebe 
Ellen's  conscience  was  of  the  passive  sort  which  makes  no 
trouble  as  long  as  it  is  let  alone  ;  it  sought  no  occasion 
for  remorse  ;  it  never  stirred  without  being  prodded,  and 


159 


then  only  in  the  direction  of  the  prod.  It  was  an  easily 
satisfied  conscience,  and  she  had  never  known  the  time 
when  she  could  not  appease  it  by  the  performance  of  a 
good  deed  of  about  the  same  dimensions  as  a  bad  one. 
The  only  good  deed  possible,  in  view  of  the  secret  wrong 
she  was  doing  her  sister,  was  to  take  the  best  possible 
care  of  the  invalid,  and  by  a  sort  of  reflection  of  this 
generosity  upon  those  in  the  neighborhood,  look  to  it 
that  she  should  not  be  the  aggressor  in  any  difficul 
ties  which  might  arise.  The  transaction  was  purely  a 
commercial  one.  Her  conscience  had  permitted  her 
to  wrong  her  sister,  and  in  return  her  conscience  re 
quired  her  to  treat  her  sister  well  —  in  which  process 
were  included  all  those  who  might  be  indirectly  con 
cerned  in  Anny's  wrongs.  It  was  as  easy  as  a  sum  in 
arithmetic. 

The  doctor  remained  five  days  at  the  ranch,  and  then 
returned  to  Halstead's.  There  was  nothing  further  for 
him  to  do,  he  said — everything  now  depended  on  Phoebe 
Ellen's  nursing.  He  shook  hands  with  her  at  parting,  as 
any  ordinary  visitor  might  have  done,  and  showed  no  in 
clination  to  return  to  his  mind-reading  experiments.  If 
anything  was  to  come  of  his  power  it  would  have  to  occur 
in  the  future.  She  gloated  over  the  idea  that  she  had  com 
pletely  mystified  him  and  that  he  had  no  data  for  imme 
diate  action. 

When  he  was  gone  she  went  immediately  to  the  kitchen 
in  search  of  Leatherhead. 

"  Did  he  take  that  truck  with  'im  ?"  she  demanded, 
looking  in  from  the  threshold. 

Leatherhead  looked  up  from  his  scrubbing. 

"  Oh,  tripe  !"  he  said,  rolling  his  eyes  up  at  her  in 
surprised  questioning.  "  Truck  ?  Say,  wot  truck  ?" 

"  Them  weeds  up  garret." 

"  That  loco  ?" 

"  Yes." 


160 


"  He  toot  wot  he  wanted  with  'im  under  the  seat  o'  the 
buckboard.  Ain't  that  all  right  ?" 

"  Yes.     But  why  didn't  he  take  it  all  ?" 

"  More  'n  he  wanted,"  nodded  Leatherhead. 

"  'N'  the  rest 's  up  there  now  ?" 

"Jesso." 

"  Wot  be  ye  goin'  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Pitch  it  out  arter  I  git  through  scrubbin'.  Ain't  that 
right  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  That's  right.  Pitch  the  stuff  out.  /  don't 
want  it  layin'aroun'." 

And  she  hurried  away.  But  on  her  way  through  the 
back  of  the  house  she  passed  the  ladder  leading  into  the 
loft  and  paused  to  look  up. 

"  I  might  go  'n'  see  how  much  he  left/'  she  thought, 
with  her  foot  on  the  lower  round. 

In  a  moment  she  was  at  the  top,  peering  in. 

"I  wonder  how  it  feels  V  smells,"  was  her  next 
thought.  "It  mus'  be  powerful  funny  stuff." 

And  before  she  was  fairly  aware  of  it,  she  was  examin 
ing  the  curious  plant  by  the  light  of  the  window. 

She  did  not  remain  long,  however.  "Wot  if  Leather- 
head  was  to  come  V  find  me  'ere  ?"  she  thought,  "'lid 
he  think  I  was  slippin'  some  o'  it  into  my  apron  to  dope 
sis  with  if  she  should  ever  come  to  'erself  ?  No  ;  I'll  go 
right  down." 

And  she  hurried  from  the  spot.  But  not  so  quickly  but 
that,  almost  in  spite  of  herself,  she  seized  a  bunch  of  the 
dried  weed  on  the  way  to  the  trap -door  and  wrapped 
it  up  in  her  apron. 

No  one  was  in  sight  on  the  lower  floor.  "I'll  make 
some  more  ginger-snaps  fer  sis,  to  pay  fer  this,"  she 
thought.  "She  was  powerful  tickled  with  the  ones  I 
give  'er  yistiddy  'n'  this  mornin'.  I'll  keep  'em  on  hand 
fer  'er,  bein'  she  likes  'em  so.  I  don't  b'lieve  they're  bad 
fer  the  stnmmick." 


161 

And  she  hurried  down  the  ladder  to  the  room  where 
the  sick  girl  was  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"Where  '11  I  put  the  stuff?"  was  her  next  thought. 
"  Oh,  I  know.  I  kin  hide  it  in  my  valise  'n'  lock  it.  Pore 
sis  !  Don't  she  look  innercent  a-settin'  there  ?  God  fer- 
bid  't  I  should  ever  have  to  use  the  truck  !  I  kin  throw 
it  away  when  I  feel  dead  shore.  I'll  go  'n7  git  'er  a  gin 
ger-snap  now  ;  she  likes  to  hold  'em  in  'er  hands  '11'  mum 
ble  'em,  pore  thing  !" 

After  that  the  days  settled  down  into  the  wholesome 
monotony  of  regular  occupations.  Pinky  got  over  his 
cold  sufficiently  to  come  and  see  her,  though  his  nose  and 
eyes  were  a  sight  to  behold  ;  and,  not  being  able  to  work, 
she  insisted  that  he  should  remain  two  days,  during  which 
time  she  dosed  him  with  hot  lemonade  and  whiskey, 
much  to  his  satisfaction.  After  that  he  came  over  regu 
larly  twice  a  week,  and  an  established  friendship  grew  up 
between  them.  Phoebe  Ellen  always  received  him  famil 
iarly,  but  she  did  not  permit  the  immediate  and  unbound 
ed  intimacy  which  her  first  profuse  invitations  had  prom 
ised.  However,  he  accepted  with  equanimity  the  distance 
she  placed  between  them.  It  was  never  so  great  but  that 
he  believed  he  could  see  across  it.  A  girl  like  Phoebe 
Ellen  was  not  to  be  won  in  a  moment.  She  was  worth 
waiting  for — she  and  her  property — and  he  was  content  to 
let  her  manage  the  affair  to  her  own  liking.  It  is  not 
necessarily  to  be  inferred  that  Pinky  was  a  mercenary 
wretch  who  would  not  have  looked  at  her  a  second  time 
Avithout  the  ranch  as  a  substantial  background  to  her 
charms.  There  are  people  in  this  world — in  good  society, 
too,  I  have  heard — the  dimensions  of  whose  affections  can 
be  measured  only  by  the  length  of  a  bank  account ;  and 
without  the  application  of  such  means  of  measurement  it 
would  probably  never  be  suspected  that  they  had  affec 
tions  at  all.  For  all  of  which  —  inasmuch  as  it  is  love 
alone  which  makes  the  world  bearable — we  ought  to  be 


162 

devoutly  thankful  to  the  bank  account  for  adding  appre 
ciably  to  the  sum  of  tender  sentiment  in  the  world,  in 
stead  of  condemning  it  for  multiplying  the  deceitfulness 
of  human  relations.  As  for  Pinky,  he  admired  Phoebe 
Ellen  tremendously — and  her  property  in  an  equal  degree 
with  herself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON~E  day  Leatherhead  came  to  the  front  of  affairs.  He 
claimed  the  fulfilment  of  Phoebe  Ellen's  promise  to  take 
the  care  of  the  kitchen  upon  herself  and  let  him  out  on 
the  range. 

By  this  time  it  had  become  a  habit  of  hers  to  talk  over 
all  her  difficulties  with  Sam. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  see  how  I  kin  git  along  'thout  'im," 
she  said,  anxiously,  after  reciting  the  circumstances. 
"  'W  yit  I've  give  'im  my  promise,  V  I  can't  go  back  on 
that.  'N'  it's  time  I  was  livin'  up  to  it  if  I'm  goin'  to. 
But  sis  takes  sech  a  orfle  lot  o'  my  time — " 

The  giant  turned  slowly  in  her  direction,  as  if  to  study 
her  face. 

"  D'  ye  begrudge  it  to  'er  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Begrudge  it  ?     Good  land,  no  !" 

He  gave  a  lurch  away  from  her,  as  if  satisfied  with  his 
examination. 

"  She  don't  git  no  more  o'  yer  time  'n  she  needs. 
That's  where  yer  time  b'longs,  jes'  now." 

"  Ye-es,  I  know.  But  I  can't  be  with  her  V  in  the 
kitchen  at  the  same  time." 

"  That's  plain,"  was  his  form  of  assent. 

"  Then  wot  be  I  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"  He  go  out  on  the  range  !"  said  the  cowboy,  with  a 
snort  and  a  laugh. 

"  He  thinks  he  kin,  'n'  that's  jes'  's  bad  till  he  tries  it. 
I  could  do  some  o'  the  kitchen-work — I'd  like  to.  He 
might  help  with  the  washin'  'n'  ironin' — " 

"  'W  bakin',"  put  in  Sam. 


164 


"  Ye  pin  a  orfle  lot  o'  faith  to  Leather-head's  bread," 
smiled  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  'N'  I  own  he  beats  me.  But  all 
the  same  I  don't  see  but  wot  we've  got  to  let  'im  try  cow- 
boyin' — leastways  fer  a  while.  'N'  sis  '11  have  to  go  neg 
lected." 

"  No,  not  that.  She's  got  to  be  took  keer  of,  wotever 
comes.  Neglectin'  her  don't  go." 

"Well,  wot  then?" 

"  S'posin'  we  let  'im  try  cowboyin',"  suggested  Sam, 
with  an  enigmatic  grin. 

"  Let  'im  try  it  ?" 

"  Jesso." 

"  But  he'll  like  it !  Ye  don't  reckon  he  wouldn't  like 
it?" 

"  I  kin  settle  his  stummick  fer  'im,"  said  Sam,  with  a 
series  of  slow  nods,  "  in  less  'n  a  pair  o'  minutes.  Leave 
it  to  me." 

"  Ye  mean—" 

"  Ye  know  Eeddy  ?" 

"  Reddy  the  Brick  ?" 

"The  wust  bucker  on  the  hull  Rio  Grande.  Well, 
Leatherhead  don't  know  'im.  That  might  be  a  advan 
tage — see  ?" 

"  Ye  don't  mean  ye're  goin'  to  turn  Leatherhead  loose 
on  Reddy  ?" 

"No  ;  I'm  goin'  to  turn  Reddy  loose  on  Leatherhead." 

"  But  the  danger — they  is  danger  ?" 

"  The  beast  '11  jerk  knots  in  'im  !" 

"'N'  if  he  was  to  die?" 

"I'll  see  to  that.  He  deserves  a  sound  bumpin',  the 
way  he's  been  takin'  on  'bout  his  cowboy  fixin's.  He's 
been  collectin'  lariats  'n'  sombreros  'n'  chaps  'n'  cuerts,  like 
he  was  goin'  to  perform  in  a  circus  with  a  pack  o'  gals 
gawpin'  at  'im  from  the  benches.  I  kin  cure  'im  'n'  keep 
'im  in  the  kitchen  at  the  same  time ;  only  don't  say  a 
word." 


165 

And  with  that  he  left  her. 

Phoebe  Ellen  knew  when  the  experiment  came  off,  for 
Sam  told  her  ;  but  Leatherhead's  appearance  would  have 
proclaimed  the  fact  to  the  world  had  all  other  portents 
failed.  She  saw  him  in  all  the  glory  of  his  cowboy  para 
phernalia  pass  out  at  the  front  door,  turn  the  corner,  and 
disappear  behind  the  barn.  "  All  the  boys  '11  be  there  to 
laff  at  'im,  fer  Sam's  made  a  sort  o'  party  o'  it,"  she 
thought.  "  But  I'm  glad  it's  out  o'  sight  o'  the  winders. 
I  don't  want  to  see  the  pore  chap  hurt." 

She  heard  all  about  it  afterwards  from  Sam  and  the 
others,  but  Leatherhead's  own  account  was  by  far  the 
most  graphic.  He  looked  forlorn  enough  on  his  return. 
He  had  lost  his  sombrero  and  cuert ;  his  red  silk  neck 
erchief — the  pride  of  his  heart — was  twisted  with  a  knot 
behind,  so  that  a  triangle  of  it  covered  his  breast  like  a 
bib  ;  his  lariat  was  trailing  in  the  dust ;  his  leather  shirt 
was  torn ;  his  chaps  were  unbuckled  and  hung  flapping 
from  the  waist;  he  carried  his  cartridge-belt  and  pistol 
in  his  hand,  and  there  was  blood  about  his  nose,  and  dirt 
011  every  conceivable  corner  and  line  of  his  body. 

Phoebe  Ellen  saw  him  coming,  and  ran  out  upon  the 
veranda  in  some  alarm  to  meet  him.  But  a  single  glance 
assured  her  that  he  was  more  scared  than  hurt. 

"Tell  ye  'bout  it  ?"  he  replied,  in  answer  to  her  ques 
tion,  flinging  himself  upon  the  floor  and  thrusting  his 
cartridge-belt  and  pistol  from  him  as  if  the  sight  of  them 
made  him  sick.  "  Oh,  wait  till  I  ketch  my  breath  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  smiled. 

"Ye  couldn't  make  it  go,  then  ?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  over  on  his  side  and  eyed  her  gloomily. 

"  Wot  d'  ye  mean  by  it?"  he  asked. 

"The  bronco,  o'  course." 

He  settled  back  with  a  groan. 

"  Make  it  go  ?  Great  gum  !  Ye  orter  V  seen  it  make 
me  go  !  Was  ye  ever  on  top  o'  one  o'  them  things  ?" 


166 

"  No,  never." 

"It'ud  scare  the  soul  out  o'  ye!  'W  don't  ye  do  it 
'thout  ye've  got  four  hull  foot-hills  to  fasten  his  feet  to. 
'W  to  think  o'  the  way  I  went  up  there  V  skipped  into 
the  saddle,  's  airy  'n'  light 's  if  I  was  made  o'  pure  joy — 
'n,'  well !  D7  ye  reckon  all  broncos  is  like  that  ?" 

He  gave  a  lame  kick  at  one  of  the  ranch  dogs  that  came 
sniffing  about  his  feet. 

"Was  it  so  bad  ?" 

"  Bad  ?  Well,  say — tripe  !  I  should  admire  to  see  any 
thing  wuss,  /  should !  Bad  ?  If  ye  had  a  private  grave 
yard  anywheres  on  the  place  I'd  go  V  crawl  into  it  V 
never  say  a  word.  Ye  see,  it  was  jes'  like  this  :  I  got 
into  the  saddle  's  fine  's  silk,  'n'  the  critter  stood  like  a 
ewe  lamb  till  I  swung  my  right  leg  over  V  got  both  feet 
in  the  stirrups  'n'  the  reins  taut  in  both  ban's ;  V  then — 
oh,  tripe  !  wot  happened  ?  I  d'  know,  I  can't  tell ;  but 
it  happened,  wotever 't  was — it  happened  all  to  wunst,  V 
all  over  me !" 

"It  must  'a'  been  bad,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  shutting 
down  on  her  smile  and  speaking  with  sympathy. 

"  Well,  sech  grand  V  lofty  tumblin'  you  never  seen,  I 
kin  take  my  dyin'  oath  o'  that !  I  shot  up  into  the  air 
like  a  hull  box  o'  giant-powder  'd  gone  off  accidental 
under  me.  I  did,  's  shore  's  I'm  a  child  o'  Sin.  I  went 
up,  straight  up,  fer  ten  minutes,  I  know  I  did.  I  had 
time  to  think  o'  all  my  sins,  'n'  wonder  which  mountain- 
top  I  was  comin'  down  on.  I  was  so  high  up  I  could  see 
all  over  Halstead's  ranch,  V  count  the  cattle  on  the 
range.  'N'  Joe  was  gittin'  out  the  cracky  V  riggin'  the 
red  cayuse  into  it,  'n'  ole  Mis'  Halstead  was  waitin'  by  the 
pigpen  to  go  somers,  with  'er  bunnit  on.  ( Ain't  I  never 
goin'  to  start  down  ?'  says  I  to  myself.  'N'  'peared  like 
it'ud  be  a  kinder  lonely  life  to  stay  up  there  ferever.  But 
when  I  come  down — oh,  say,  the  air  'n'  the  lonesomeness 
was  pure  joy  arter  that !  'N'  it  was  the  queerest  thing — 


167 


that  dam  beast  had  shifted  so  's  to  git  right  under  me, 
'n'  I  landed  fair  V  square  on  top  o'  the  very  saddle  Fd 
shot  out  of  half  a  hour  afore  !  It  cracked  my  liver.  'N' 
there  was  all  the  boys  a-laffin'  at  me — V  Sam  along  o'  the 
rest.  I  never  thort  the  like  o'  that  o'  Sam.  Oh,  Lord,  wot 
a  smash  they  was  when  I  struck  !  I  made  shore  I  was  goin' 
's  far  down  into  the  airth  's  wot  I'd  been  above  it,  but 
somehow  I  stayed  in  the  saddle.  Well,  I  hadn't  much 
more  'n  struck  till — tripe  !  if  that  bronco  don't  do  bizness 
by  lightnin' !  Up  I  started  agin,  'n'  says  I  to  myself,  '  I've 
got  a  better  start  this  time,  '11'  I  reckon  I'm  in  fer  a  longer 
v'yage.'  I  felt  the  blood  a-runnin'  out  o'  my  heart  like  a 
augur-hole  'd  been  bored  in  the  bottom  o'  it.  But  I  kep' 
on  goin'  up.  'N'  when  I  come  down,  that  hoss  struck  me 
like  a  pile-driver  workin'  wrong  end  up,  'n'  back  I  went 
into  the  air  agin,  seein'  stars  'n'  wishin'  I  was  dead.  Talk 
about  earthquakes  !  I  had  them  all  the  way  up  to  the 
stoppin'-place  V  back  agin,  'n'  they  was  jes'  fun.  But 
the  landin'  on  the  saddle — oh,  say  !  I  d'  know  how  long  I 
was  circussin'  aroun'  atween  that  bronco's  back  '11'  the 
sky — I  don't  want  to  know.  The  bare  thort  o'  it  wears 
me  out.  But  sech  a  churnin'  's  I  got !  Every  rib  in  my 
body  's  busted  —  I  kin  feel  the  broken  ends  raspin'  to 
gether  here  in  front.'7 

He  drew  himself  into  a  sitting  position  and  braced 
himself  with  one  hand  against  the  floor. 

"  Gimme  my  dish-rag  'n'  let  me  go  back  to  the  kitchen!" 
he  cried,  tragically.  "  That  sort  o'  life  's  good  'nough  fer 
me!" 

Phoebe  Ellen  suppressed  her  laughter. 

"  Don't  take  it  to  heart,"  she  soothed.  ' '  Good  Ian',  ye 
ain't  the  first  human 't  's  got  into  a  scrape,  'n'  ye  won't  be 
the  last.  They's  fun  in  life  yit !" 

"  But  the  boys—" 

"I'll  see  to  it  't  they  let  ye  'lone  'bout  it.  Go  V  lay 
down.  I'll  have  Sam  give  ye  a  rubbin'  with  liniment,  V 


168 

ye'll  be  fresh  's  a  rose  by  mornin'.  Don't  take  it  to  heart. 
It  '11  come  all  right  I" 

Leatherhead  rose  stiffly.  He  regarded  her  a  moment  in 
a  sort  of  bursting  silence,  then  cried  out,  explosively  : 

"I  allus  swore  ye  was  a  trump  card,  'n'  now  I  know  it  ! 
'W  when  I  git  over  this,  if  I  do  a  thing  but  stay  aroun' 
the  kitchen  V  wait  on  ye  V  drudge  fer  ye,  my  name's 


And  with  that  he  fled  into  the  house  as  fast  as  his  dilapi 
dated  condition  would  permit. 

"  Well,  that's  settled,"  thought  Phoebe  Ellen,  with  satis 
faction.  "I'll  help  Leatherhead  in  the  kitchen,  o'  course 
—  I  like  kitchen-work  ;  but  sis  has  got  to  come  in  fust. 
It's  little  'nough  I  kin  make  o'  the  pore  critter  at  best. 
But  I've  got  a  good  thing  out  o'  her,  'n'  if  my  time  V 
keer  kin  be  o'  use  to  'er  she's  goin'  to  have  'em.  It's  only 
fair." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

So  time  went  on  till  August.  The  gray  slopes  of 
mountain-sage  had  taken  a  golden  tinge  from  their  hang 
ing  ball-blossoms ;  the  wild  sunflowers  sent  thrills  of  vivid 
color  along  the  uplands ;  and- the  magenta  of  vetches  was 
washed  in,  like  some  dainty  water-color,  below  the  sombre 
bases  of  the  foot-hills.  The  mountains  were  more  deeply 
purple  than  they  had  been  in  June;  at  morning  they  seemed 
but  a  deeper  fringe  on  the  flaring  purple  garment  of  the 
sky  ;  and  at  certain  hours  of  the  afternoon,  under  those 
lovely  evanescent  lights  the  secret  of  whose  making  the 
sky  only  knows,  they  looked  translucent,  as  if  warmed  and 
lighted  from  within  by  shaded  purple  astrals. 

The  willows  were  as  green  as  ever,  a-droop  over  the 
brown  and  gold  of  the  shadowed  water ;  sociable  little 
groups  of  primroses  danced  together  as  the  breeze  passed ; 
the  groves  of  aspen  on  the  mountain  -  side  had  not  yet 
turned  to  gold,  but  still  met  the  advances  of  the  wind 
with  those  ecstatic,  supersensitive  shudders  which  make 
them  seem  so  emotional  and  human.  They  are  like  deli 
cate  consumptive  girls  whom  a  breath  of  air  cannot  touch 
without  setting  them  a-shiver.  The  only  change  one 
noticed  in  the  pines  was  that  their  melody  had  become 
more  thoughtful,  as  if  the  idea  of  the  coming  winter  op 
pressed  them. 

The  oats  had  been  harvested,  and  another  crop,  self- 
sown  like  the  first,  was  well  under  way.  Its  tender 
verdure  contrasted  vividly  with  the  misty  gray  of  the 
mountain-sage  above  it,  and  the  harsh,  faded  green  of  the 
potato-tops  below.  The  corn  was  half  grown  by  this  time, 


170 

and  the  musical  clash  of  its  long  leaves  made  a  pleasant 
accompaniment  to  the  mingled  murmur  of  the  river  and 
the  pines.  One  who  had  time  might  climb  to  the  sum 
mit  of  the  foot-hills — it  was  not  so  steep  as  it  looked — and 
lie  down  on  a  ready-made  bed  of  pine-needles,  with  the 
world  at  his  feet  and  the  sky  very  near ;  and  when  he  re 
turned  to  the  valley  he  would  walk  in  awed  silence,  as  if 
he  had  just  clasped  hands  with  God. 

The  monotony  of  life  at  the  ranch  was  broken  only  by 
the  visits  of  Pinky  and  the  doctor.  Phoebe  Ellen  had 
assumed  control  of  the  kitchen,  but  on  baking-days  and 
wash-days  Leatherhead  was  in  evidence ;  at  other  times  he 
was  busy  about  the  stables  and  fields.  She  was  a  kind 
mistress,  and  all  the  boys  appreciated  her ;  vociferous,  it 
is  true,  in  a  sort  of  purposeless  self-assertion,  but  careful 
and  attentive,  and  on  the  whole  quite  acceptable.  She 
had  a  business  head  which  not  only  grasped  principles  but 
details,  and  Sam  himself  had  learned  to  yield  her  a  meas 
ure  of  admiration  which  he  would  have  believed  it  im 
possible  to  bestow  upon  a  woman  in  command.  The  thing 
that  struck  him  as  remarkable  in  his  own  relations  with 
her — he  was  not  sure,  however,  that  it  held  true  in  her 
relations  with  the  other  boys — was  the  fact  that  she  never 
went  "a-hennin*  around";  she  left  him  to  do  as  he  liked, 
and  accepted  the  results  of  his  management  as  the  ulti 
mate  good  thing,  beyond  which  her  imagination  could 
picture  nothing  better. 

Phoebe  Ellen's  chief  problem  was  Pinky ;  an  emotional 
problem,  to  be  sure,  and  therefore,  it  might  be  thought, 
one  that  would  be  easy  of  solution ;  but  hitherto  Phoebe 
Ellen's  problems  had  all  concerned  material  things,  and  she 
had  settled  them  with  little  or  no  regard  for  anything 
higher  than  a  momentary  advantage,  so  that  the  irritating 
complex  which  results  from  being  obliged  to  look  to  the 
sensibilities  as  a  basis  of  solution  had  never  imposed 
itself  upon  the  simple  directness  of  her  methods.  But 


171 


now  there  were  many  things  to  consider.  She  liked  Pinky 
and  knew  that  he  liked  her — a  combination  which,  in  her 
experience,  possessed  the  interest  of  novelty,  to  say  the 
least.  She  wanted  Sam  to  see  that  people  liked  her,  too. 
(It  always  enhances  the  value  of  an  article  to  know  that 
your  neighbors  are  dying  to  possess  it. )  But  Pinky  really 
came  over  too  often  —  three  times  a  week  was  too  often, 
considering  that  Sam  was  usually  around.  She  couldn't 
tell  him  to  stop,  either :  first,  because  she  wanted  him  to 
come,  and,  secondly,  because  Sam  would  notice  and  begin 
to  wonder  why  she  was  unable  to  retain  her  admirers. 
Not  that  Sam  appeared  to  care  about  Pinky's  visits ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  cared  too  little  altogether.  If  he  had 
only  shown  that  he  noticed  and  resented  them,  she  would 
have  stopped  them  with  all  the  joy  in  life.  Or  if  he  had 
paid  the  slightest  attention  to  other  women,  she  would 
have  unfurled  Pinky  before  his  eyes,  so  to  speak,  and  kept 
him  floating  on  the  breeze  from  morning  till  night.  But 
Sam  never  seemed  to  know  when  women  were  around;  that 
was  what  puzzled  Phoebe  Ellen.  And  Freckled  Mariar 
and  Snickeriri"  Sal  and  all  the  other  rustic  beauties  of  the 
region  exerted  their  charms  on  him  in  vain.  He  cared 
for  Anny,  she  knew,  but  in  a  pitying  way  that  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  jealousy.  His  life  was  as  open  and  simple  as 
the  day.  He  went  to  bed  early,  got  up  early,  rode  with 
the  boys  on  the  range  in  search  of  strayed  cattle,  looked 
after  the  harvests,  mended  the  fences,  petted  the  dogs, 
and  smoked  his  pipe  in  utter  content.  Once  in  a  while 
he  went  to  Eden  City,  got  drunk  with  Pete  Hawkins  and 
Pinky,  and  came  home  the  next  morning  without  the 
least  attempt  to  conceal  what  he  had  done.  He  felt  the 
need  of  an  occasional  "toot,"  and  took  it  as  simply  and 
naturally  as  he  took  his  breakfast. 

The  doctor  came  over  about  once  a  week.  He  looked 
more  worn  and  haggard  and  nervous  than  ever.  t(  He'll 
have  to  take  mighty  good  keer  o'  hisself  if  he  keeps  on 


172 

top  o'  the  dirt  six  months  longer,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen  to 
Sam.  The  Bostonian  was  deeply  interested  in  Anny,  and 
kept  watch  of  her  progress  with  something  as  nearly  like 
affection  as  could  be  expected  from  a  nature  as  distracted 
as  his.  There  were  frequent  conflicts  between  him  and 
Phcebe  Ellen,  though  nothing  so  pronounced  as  what  had 
occurred  when  they  first  met.  These  were  conflicts  of 
the  eyes  always,  worked  out  in  silence  on  the  lines  of  sus 
picion  and  menace.  But  he  never  again  really  got  a 
glimpse  into  her  thoughts.  Once  or  twice  he  had  stood 
on  the  horizon  of  her  mind  for  a  moment,  but  her  will 
had  always  risen  like  a  tempest  and  driven  him  back. 
Whenever  he  approached  her  she  drew  herself  together 
for  resistance.  It  often  occurred  to  her  that  she  would 
have  had  a  much  harder  time  of  it  had  he  been  in  perfect 
health  and  possessed  the  strength  dependent  thereupon. 

The  two  months  since  the  accident  had  passed  quietly 
enough  for  every  one  except  Anny.  To  her  they  amount 
ed  to  years  of  growth  and  change.  She  had  begun  life 
like  a  little  child,  her  mind  a  blank,  her  past  experiences 
obliterated  by  that  dreadful  catastrophe,  as  pencil-marks 
are  rubbed  off  from  a  slate  when  a  damp  sponge  is  dashed 
across  them.  The  injury  had  gone  deep — to  the  very  core 
and  centre  of  mental  being.  But  she  learned  to  sit  alone, 
to  hold  things,  and  finally  to  walk.  At  first  she  moved 
about  with  difficulty,  as  a  child  does — seizing  hold  of 
near  objects  to  steady  herself,  then  taking  a  few  tottering 
steps  alone,  with  now  and  then  a  fall,  at  which  she  laughed 
or  cried,  according  to  her  humor ;  but  later  she  walked 
from  place  to  place  with  the  ease  which  comes  of  habit 
and  practice.  Yet  there  was  a  lack  of  elasticity  in  all  her 
movements  which  only  those  could  appreciate  who  had 
known  her  before  the  accident.  She  dragged  one  foot 
when  she  walked ;  there  was  an  uncertainty  in  her  way  of 
reaching  for  things  which  the  will  alone  had  been  unable 
to  overcome.  It  was  as  if  the  source  of  life  had  become 


173 

muddied  ;  and  though  the  power  of  movement  remained, 
there  was  none  of  the  old  grace  and  joy  to  animate  it. 
She  could  talk,  but  slowly  and  hesitatingly  —  often  ram- 
blingly,  as  if  the  meaning  of  words  corresponded  but 
vaguely  to  her  ideas.  Notions  were  a  slow  growth  with 
her,  and  she  expressed  them  elliptically,  as  children  do. 
She  sometimes  tried  to  sing,  but  as  often  as  not  she  lost 
the  melody,  and  her  voice  trailed  away  into  queer,  unmu 
sical  noises,  which  her  ear  failed  to  differentiate  from  the 
tune  she  had  in  mind.  She  learned  many  useful  house 
hold  tasks,  and  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  performing 
them.  She  could  wash  the  dishes  and  set  them  away  on 
the  shelves  very  neatly ;  she  swept  and  dusted,  she  sewed 
a  little,  she  helped  about  the  washing  and  ironing  ;  but 
always  Phoebe  Ellen  was  near,  as  the  guiding  head,  for 
the  afflicted  girl  could  hold  her  attention  to  one  thing  but 
a  little  while  at  a  time  unless  some  one  was  at  hand  to 
admonish  her.  Sometimes  while  wiping  the  dishes  she 
would  wander  away  with  a  plate  in  her  hand,  and  set  it 
down  in  some  unheard-of  place,  while  she  herself  strolled 
about  among  the  pines,  humming  discordantly  to  herself 
while  she  plucked  flowers  and  berries  from  the  mountain 
side.  Phoebe  Ellen  learned  to  have  her  eyes  open  for 
these  fits  of  abstraction,  and  when  she  found  the  poor 
creature's  mind  wandering  at  her  tasks  she  would  recall 
her,  sometimes  sharply,  but  never  unkindly,  and  then 
Anny  would  go  on  with  her  work  writh  a  sort  of  vacant 
gladness,  never  with  resentment  or  pique.  It  was  very 
pitiful,  but  it  was  the  best  that  could  be  done.  The  doc 
tor  had  said  the  girl  would  do  better  to  have  something 
to  take  her  attention,  and  there  was  nothing  outside  the 
common  household  tasks  to  answer  the  purpose. 

Phoebe  Ellen  had  been  very  constant  and  kind.  It  was 
good  to  see  her  patiently  explaining  a  more  rational  choice 
of  words  than  Anny  made  use  of,  and  teaching  her  to  make 
consecutive  sentences.  She  never  lost  her  temper  ;  and 


174 

if  she  sometimes  brought  her  pupil  sharply  to  time,  it  was 
distinctly  for  the  pupil's  own  good.  In  these  efforts"  to 
restore  to  the  injured  brain  something  of  its  former 
power,  Sam  was  Phoebe  Ellen's  warm  coadjutor.  He  spent 
all  his  spare  time  with  the  unfortunate.,  patiently  trying  to 
give  her  more  definite  conceptions  of  things.  It  was  a 
task  that  he  loved,  that  he  would  not  have  dispensed  with 
for  the  world ;  but  it  was  sad,  too,  and  the  great  creature 
was  frequently  observed  wiping  his  eyes,  while  his  pupil 
looked  on  in  grieved  and  gentle  wonder ;  and  sometimes 
he  had  to  leave  her  till  he  regained  command  of  himself. 
Unlike  Phoebe  Ellen,  he  was  never  known  to  speak  sharp 
ly  ;  but  it  was  observable  that  her  instructions  were  more 
eifective  than  his,  and  that  the  girl's  advancement  was 
more  largely  attributable  to  Phoebe  Ellen's  kind  but  rigid 
discipline  than  to  any  other  influence  brought  to  bear. 

And  though  Anny  learned  many  things,  became,  in  fact, 
a  help  about  the  place  instead  of  the  hinderance  into 
which  she  might  easily  have  degenerated,  she  was  but  the 
shadow  of  her  former  self.  Her  face  had  suffered  a  most 
pathetic  change.  The  old  color  was  still  in  the  cheeks, 
the  softly  curved  outline  of  throat  and  chin  was  just  the 
same,  the  low,  pretty  forehead  gleamed  as  whitely  from  its 
fringe  of  curls  ;  but  the  eyes,  without  whose  kindling  fires 
the  other  features  remain  inert  matter  and  nothing  more, 
had  the  hopeless,  blank,  lack-lustre  look  of  the  feeble 
minded,  and  were  lighted  only  now  and  then  by  a  gleam 
of  intelligence,  which  gave  them  for  a  moment  something 
of  their  former  brightness  and  meaning.  There  was  an 
intellectual  lack  in  every  movement  of  the  body,  every 
outline  of  the  features,  in  the  very  tinting  of  the  skin. 
The  mental  woman  was  no  longer  in  control,  and  the 
physical  woman,  thus  left  to  herself,  was  pitiful  and,  in 
a  manner,  dreadful  to  look  upon. 


CHAPTER  XX 

0^  the  second  Sunday  in  August  Pinky  appeared  as 
promptly  as  usual  at  the  Thompson  ranch.  His  boots 
were  freshly  oiled,  he  wore  a  gorgeous  necktie,  and  that 
ultimate  adjunct  of  elegance,  as  the  word  is  understood 
among  the  mountaineers,  a  "  clean  biled  shirt." 

"  Well,  fer  any  sakes !"  cried  Phoebe  Ellen,  meeting 
him,  as  he  dismounted,  on  the  veranda  and  shaking 
hands.  Did  she  leave  her  palm  in  his  a  little  longer  than 
usual  ?  Pinky  wondered.  And  did  she  squeeze  his  fingers 
the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  as  she  obliged  him  to  let 
go  ?  He  would  have  given  a  month's  wages  to  know. 
But  she  was  rattling  on  at  a  great  rate.  "  If  ye  'ain't  got 
all  yer  war-paint  on  this  time,  fer  shore  !  Good  Ian' ! 
Look  at  that  necktie !  Well,  if  ye  don't  look  like  ye 
was  struck  by  lightnin',  I  miss  my  guess.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  yer  hair  was  combed  in  a  reg'lar  cowlick,  too. 
Well,  here's  fine  doin's  !  Wot's  up,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Nothin'  ain't  up,  as  I  knows  on," answered  Pinky,  with 
his  rose-du- Barry  grin.  "  I  jes'  come  over,  same  's  allus. 
Be  ye  all  to  hum  ?" 

"  Spected  to  find  us  all  to  meetin',  I  reckon  ?"  she  re 
torted. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  with  magenta  deprecation,  "  I 
d'  know  's  wot  I  went  's  fur  's  that.  But  Sam  V  sis — " 

' '  Oh,  they're  a-koosternr'  aroun'  somers.  He  was  tryin7 
to  learn  'er  'er  letters  a  bit  ago.  Put  'im  out  in  the  barn, 
won't  ye  ?"  She  jerked  her  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
horse.  "  Ye  know  where." 

"  I  reckon  he  kin  stan'  'ere  a  while,"  replied  Pinky, 


176 

tying  his  tacky  little  mustang  to  the  veranda  post. 
"I'll  put  'im  out  into  the  corral  by-V-by.  That's  good 
'nough  fer  him." 

"  Want  to  go  in  ?  It's  nicer  out  'ere.  Go  V  fetch  a 
cheer — there's  a  good  chap.  /  know  why  ye  come  over/' 
she  added,  as  Pinky  returned  with  a  deal  stool  and  took  his 
place  at  her  side.  She  was  in  unusually  good  spirits,  and 
he  noted  the  fact  with  the  hopefulness  which  lovers  will 
understand. 

"Well,  wot'ud  I  come  fer?"  lie  asked,  grinning  as  he 
propped  both  elbows  on  his  knees  and  fixed  his  cheeks  in 
his  palms. 

"  Ye  spotted  a  hen-fun'ral,"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of 
accusation. 

"  Ye  don't  mean  ye're  agoin'  fer  to  perform  the  las' 
sollum  rites  over  the  diseased  corpse  o'  a  barnyard  fowl 
to-day  ?"  he  asked,  in  mock  surprise. 

"  I  do— I  do  !     At  one  o'clock  !" 

"  Well,  I  have  struck  it  rich  this  time,  'n'  no  mistake  !" 

"  'S  if  ye  didn't  know  we  had  hen  's  reg'lar  's  Sunday 
come  around  !" 

"  Ye  was  threateniri'  ole  Topsy  all  the  week,  I  'member. 
Oh,  say,  it  couldn't  be  Topsy,  now  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  nodded  a  grim  affirmative. 

"Topsy  it  is,"  she  announced.  "She  would  set — I 
couldn't  break  'er  'thout  breakin'  'er  neck,  V  so  ye  see 
wot  she's  come  to.  I  tied  'er  to  the  corral  by  one  leg,  I 
ducked  'er  a  dozen  times  in  the  river,  I  hoodooed  'er  in 
fifty  ways  't  Sam  'n'  Leatherhead  wanted  me  to  try ;  but 
'twa'ii't  no  go.  She  would  cluck.  'W  so — " 

"  Off  went  'er  topknot,  hey  ?" 

"  Off  went  'er  topknot  this  mornin'.  I  done  the  bloody 
deed  myself,  'n'  enjoyed  it,  though  Leatherhead  wanted  to 
take  the  job  oif  my  han's.  Sech  a  obstinit  critter  !  She's 
layin'  in  state  this  minute  in  the  dish-pan  in  the  sink,  if 
Leatherhead  'ain't  put  'er  into  the  stew-kittle." 


177 


"  I  reckon  I  mightn't  look  at  'er,  mightn't  I  ?" 

"  Not  afore  the  reg'lar  service  at  one  o'clock.  We're 
goin'  to  bile  'er — she's  powerful  old  'n'  tough,  that  Topsy. 
Sam  'lows  she  was  the  oldes'  two-legged  critter  on  the 
place,  barrin'  hisself." 

"Is  Sam  so  old  ?" 

"  Well,  old  'longside  o'  a  hen,  I  take  it,"  answered 
Phoebe  Ellen.  "  But  's  fur  's  wot  humans  goes,  'pears 
like  he  'ain't  outlived  his  usefulness.  The  ranch  still 
has  need  o'  him." 

"  By  the  ranch  ye  mean  yerself,  I  reckon  ?"  Pinky 
asked. 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  all  the  same  thing !  Me  'n'  the  ranch  is 
one.  Kin  ye  think  o'  me  'thout  the  ranch,  or  the  ranch 
'thout  me  ?" 

Pinky  fixed  his  pale  eyes  fully  upon  hers. 

"I  kin  think  o'  ye  anyways  ye  like, 'ceptin'  'thout  me 
aroun'  to  look  at  ye." 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head. 

"Yes,"  assented  Pinky,  "that's  all  very  well,  but  it 
might  be  better." 

"Oh,  I  allus  know  wot  ye're  goin'  to  talk  about  when 
ye  look  like  that  !"  declared  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Then  I  mustn't  say  it  ?" 

"I  sha'n't  urge  ye." 

"If  I  was  aroun'  to  look  at  ye  all  the  time — " 

"Shockin'  !"  objected  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"'N'  if  ye  was  to  be  where  ye  could  look  at  me  all  the 
time — " 

"Scan'lous!" 

"We'd  both  be  better  off,"  finished  Pinky,  with  shame 
faced  deliberation. 

"Ye're  wantin'  a  job  on  the  range,  I  take  it,  or  ye'd 
never  come  aroun'  me  like  that,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  fold 
ing  her  hands  primly  at  her  belt  and  slanting  her  face 

12 


178 

towards  him.  "  Ye  orter  speak  to  Sam.  He  mos'ly  looks 
arter  them  things." 

"  Ye're  allus  puttin'  me  off/'  complained  Pinky. 

"I  reckon  a  gal  has  a  right  to  do  as  she  likes,  V  I  like 
time.  Fm  shore  I've  been  good  to  ye,"  remarked  Phoebe 
Ellen,  in  a  pious  tone. 

"  Oh,  good,  yes  !  Ye've  let  me  come  over  to  Sunday 
dinner — " 

"'£T  twicet  durin'  the  week/' she  corrected  him. 

"Well,  wot  o'  that?  We  have  dinners  over  to  Eden 
City." 

"Yes — sech  's  they  be.  But  they  ain't  's  good — ye 
know  they  ain't  's  good  's  mine,  Pinky  !" 

"No,  they  ain't  's  good  's  yourn,"  he  was  obliged  to 
admit.  "  Ye  beat  anything  in  the  kitchen — I'll  own  right 
up  to  that." 

"  Well,  then,  why  not  keep  right  on  comin'  over  to  din 
ner,  'n'  say  no  more  'bout  it  ?" 

"  I  wa'n't  talkin'  'bout  comin'  to  dinner,  nohow,"  ob 
jected  Pinky. 

"I  was.  'N'  why  not  put  the  hull  thing  on  a  dinner 
basis  ?  It'ud  be  a  sensible  way." 

"Oh,  Lord  !"  groaned  Pinky. 

"  Got  a  pain  ?"  inquired  Phoebe  Ellen,  kindly. 

"Ye  don't  keer  nothin'  fer  me  !" 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  nothin'  a-suiferin'.  Shall  I  git  the 
campfire  ?  It's  powerful  upliftin'  to  the  stummick." 

"Ye  don't — ye  don't  keer  a  tinker's  darn  fer  me,  V  I 
know  it,  too." 

"Well,  how  d'  ye  know  it,  now?" 

"  Can't  I  see  ?" 

"I  never  said  sech  a  thing." 

"But  ye've  acted  it — ye're  actin'  it  now.  'N' actions 
speaks  louder  'n  words,  every  time." 

"No,  I  never  said  it,  'n'  I  never  acted  it,  nuther.  Fer 
I  do  keer  fer  ye.  So  there  !" 


179 

Pinky's  face  lighted  up  like  a  red  gas-globe  when  a 
match  is  held  inside. 

"  D'  ye  mean  it  ?"  he  cried,  eagerly. 

"  Course  I  mean  it.  I  liked  ye  from  the  start.  Don't 
ye  'member  how  fine  we  got  on  the  fust  day  over  there  to 
the  depot  ?" 

Pinky 's  face  fell. 

"I  'member/' he  answered,  gloomily. 

"Well,  then  !"  crowed  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Oh,  I  'member  !  'N'  we've  got  on  jes'  the  same  way 
ever  sence.  'W  that's  all  that  means  !" 

"  Some  folks  'ud  kick  if  they  was  hangin'/'  she  re 
marked. 

"  Anybody  'ud  kick  't  had  been  hangin'  from  June  to 
August/'  he  retorted. 

A  change  came  into  Phoebe  Ellen's  features — a  mental 
change  such  as  shows  itself  rather  in  a  readjustment  of 
the  lines  of  the  face  than  in  a  fluctuation  in  the  color  of 
the  skin.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  his  with  a  look  which 
he  had  never  seen  there  before. 

"Ye  ain't  the  only  one  't 's  been  hangin'/'  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  know  the  meanin'  o'  that,"  Pinky  cried.  He 
did  not  dare  to  speak  directly  of  Sam  in  connection  with 
herself,  but  it  was  altogether  like  her  to  go  on  of  her  own 
accord.  Her  next  words  were  more  positive. 

"You  d'  know  how  long  I  been  hangin'.  Gals  don't 
wear  their  feelin's  fer  bows  'n'  ruffles." 

"  I  reckon  that's  a  crack  at  me,  ain't  it  ?  But  men 
don't  try  to  hide  their  feelin's.  They  know  they  couldn't. 
They'd  git  away  with  'em,  every  time." 

"  But  all  men  ain't  alike,"  she  objected. 

"  They  be  in  that  way." 

She  reflected  a  long  moment. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  it !"  she  finally  declared. 

"No?" 

"  Lots  o'  'em  could  love  a  gal  '11'  never  show  it !" 


180 


"  Fer  instance  ?" 

"  Sam  could  !"• 

Pinky  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat  before  he  turned  his 
red  face  towards  her  in  answer. 

"Mebbe  he  could,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "But  he 
don't — I'm  shore  o'  that." 

"How  d'  you  know?"  scoffed  Phoebe  Ellen.  "Much 
you  know  "bout  wot  Sam  thinks.  There  he  is  now  with 
sis,  comin'  down  from  the  spring.  They've  been  up  there 
together  fer  a  good  hour." 

"  Tears  like  he  sets  a  heap  o'  store  by  'er,"  remarked 
Pinky. 

«  Yes— V  she  by  him." 

They  were  silent,  watching  the  two  descend  the  hill. 
Sam  shortened  his  gigantic  stride  to  suit  the  short,  irregu 
lar  gait  of  his  companion,  though  he  did  not  try  to  keep 
step  with  her.  She  had  an  uncertain  way  of  lifting  her 
feet,  and  she  stepped  long  or  short,  with  aimless  lurches 
sideward  and  forward. 

"  I  ain't  turned  off,  then  ?"  inquired  Pinky,  whose 
thoughts  had  returned  to  his  own  love-affair. 

"  I  don't  never  turn  off  nobody  'ceptin'  fer  bad  corn- 
duck,"  answered  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Then  Fm  likely  to  stay  on  the  rest  o'  my  life." 

"It  'pends  on  yer  stayin'  power." 

"  Oh,  I  got  plenty  o'  that !" 

"  In  wot  way  ?" 

"  I'll  be  good — right  along,"  grinned  Pinky. 

"  Oh,  ye're  good  'nough.  I  never  said  ye  wa'n't  good 
'nough.  'Tain't  that." 

She  seemed  willing  to  open  up  the  subject  anew,  and 
Pinky  certainly  had  no  objection, 

"  Wot  is  it,  then  ?"  he  asked. 

She  tossed  her  head. 

"  Why,  ye  see,  there's  my  own  mind,"  she  suggested. 

"  Oh,  that's  a  big  matter,"  said  Pinky. 


181 


"  It  is  with  a  gal,,  when  she  don't  know  it." 
"  When  she  don't  know  it's  a  big  matter  ?" 
"  A  gal's  mind  is  allus  a  big  matter  when  she  don't  on- 
derstan'  it/'  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  explicitly. 
"  Then  I  kin  keep  right  on  hopin'  ?" 
"  No  harm  kin  come  o'  that,  's  I  kin  see." 
"  Does  it  bother  ye  when  I  talk  about  it  ?" 
"  It  might,  if  ye  was  to  talk  too  much." 
"I'll  be  keerful,"  Pinky  promised. 
And  at  that  moment  Sam  and  Anny  came  up. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  girl  came  heavily  across  the  veranda  to  Phoebe 
Ellen's  side  and  sat  down  on  the  floor.  She  looked  tired 
and  wistful.  There  was  a  set  wrinkle  in  her  forehead, 
which  had  grown  there  since  the  accident.  It  would  have 
been  less  sadly  conspicuous  had  it  seemed  the  result  of 
thought. 

"  Why  not  git  a  cheer  ?"  asked  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  Wouldn't 
ye  rather  ?" 

The  girl  turned  her  face  upward  in  mute  questioning. 
Phoebe  Ellen  saw  that  she  had  asked  two  questions  in  suc 
cession — a  complication  which  her  sister  was  often  unable 
to  follow. 

"Why  don't  ye  git  a  cheer  ?"  she  repeated. 

Evidently  Anny  understood,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Wouldn't  ye  rather  ?" 

"  No,"  was  the  dull  answer. 

"  Ye  like  the  floor  better  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me  why." 

Anny  considered. 

"I'm  tired/'  she  finally  said,  with  a  long  sigh. 

"Too  tired  to  think?" 

She  nodded. 

"But  the  floor — ye  kin  tell  me  why  ye  like  to  set  on 
the  floor  ?" 

Anny  considered  again. 

"It's  big,"  she  presently  answered.  "I  can't  fall 
off." 

Phoebe  Ellen  smiled  as  she  smoothed  her  sister's  hair. 


183 


"  D'  ye  have  a  good  time  with  Sam  V  yer  book  ?"  she 
went  on. 

Anny  looked  at  her,  perplexed. 

"  Book  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  Don't  ye  'member  yer  book?  See!  Sam's  got 
it  in  his  hand  now." 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  after  a  look  in  Sam's  direction. 

"  D'  ye  have  a  good  time  with  Sam  ?"  repeated  Phoebe 
Ellen. 

"Yes/' was  the  answer,  not  quite  so  dully  given,  but 
always  with  a  vocal  vacancy  which  corresponded  with  the 
eyes.  Sam,  who  had  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the 
veranda,  smiled  at  her,  but  his  face  was  sad. 

"Ye  like  to  be  with  Sam  ?"  continued  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"Yes." 

" 'Cause  he's  good  to  ye  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Sam's  allus  good  to  ye  ?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

The  voice  was  becoming  more  expressive. 

<"W  yer  book— ye  like  that,  too  ?" 

"No." 

"  It's  too  hard  ?" 

"  Hard — hard  !  It's  too  hard  !"  repeated  the  girl,  like 
a  parrot. 

"  Sometimes  I  make  shore  I  better  not  pester  'er  with 
it  no  longer,"  Sam  put  in. 

"/wouldn't,"  declared  Pinky. 

"  I  can't  see  't  anything  comes  o'  it  but  the  pesterin'," 
Sam  continued.  "She  can't  1'arn.  It  jes'  worries  'er." 

"  Jesso,"  acquiesced  Pinky. 

"Her  'n'  me  's  talked  it  over,  though."  Sam  jerked 
his  thumb  in  Phoebe  Ellen's  direction.  "  She  'lows  it's 
better  to  keep  the  pore  thing  stirred  up." 

"  She'll  1'arn  to  hate  the  sight  o'  ye  'n'  yer  book,"  said 
Pinky. 


184 


Sam  looked  startled. 

"God  ferbid  I"  he  ejaculated,  with  fervor.  Then,  facing 
Phoebe  Ellen  with  the  anxiety  still  in  his  face,  "Wot 
d'  ye  think  o'  that  ?" 

"0'  her  hatin'ye  ?" 

She  met  his  eyes  with  perfect  coolness. 

But  Sam  was  not  reassured. 

"  If  I  made  shore  she'd  do  that—" 

"  Ye'd  kill  yerself,  I  make  no  doubt." 

"  I'd  never  make  'er  look  inside  o'  the  kivers  o'  a  book 
agin,  ye  may  be  shore  o'  that." 

"Rot  I"  snorted  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  She  keers  too  much  fer 
ye  to  let  a  few  letters  in  a  book  upset  the  bizness.  Don't 
ye,  sis  ?" 

But  Anny  had  been  unable  to  follow  the  conversation, 
and  answered  her  sister's  question  only  by  a  vague  "  How  ?" 

"  The  docter  says  how  as  it's  good  fer  'er,"  continued 
Phoebe  Ellen.  "  It  keeps  'er  a-tryin',  'n'  that  henders  'er 
from  doatin'.  I  don't  reckon  it  pesters  'er,  either,  's  much 
'a  wot  ye  think.  She  jes'  sorter  feels  bad't  she  can't  do 
wot  ye  want  'er  to.  Mebbe  that's  a  good  thing  in  itself  ; 
the  docter  says  so.  It  keeps  'er  agoin',  anyway.  'W  she 
likes  to  try  to  please  ye — I  know  that.  Does  Sam  pester 
ye  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly  turning  to  Anny. 

Still  the  same  vacant  voice  in  answer  : 

"No." 

"Does  the  book  pester  ye  ?" 

"Yes." 

"But  if  Sam  wasn't  to  1'arn  ye  from  the  book  no  more  ?" 

Anny  pondered. 

"  How  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  repeated  her  question  very  distinctly. 

"  No  book  no  more  ?"  asked  the  girl,  eagerly. 

Phoebe  Ellen  nodded. 

"I'd  like  that,"  enunciated  the  poor  creature  after  a 
moment. 


185 


"  But  if  ye  couldn't  have  Sam,  either  ?" 

"No  Sam?"'  Anny's  eyes  widened  in  distressed  sur 
prise. 

"The  book  V  Sam  allus  go  together — see  ?" 

The  possibility  of  losing  Sam  had  momentarily  sharp 
ened  the  girl's  faculties. 

"Not  allus — not  allus,"  she  declared.  "Sometimes — 
sometimes  Sam  leaves  the  book  behind  !" 

"  But  if  ye  have  Sam,  ye  mus'  have  the  book,  too." 

Again  the  interval  of  pondering. 

"How?" 

"No  book,  no  Sam,"  replied  Phoebe  Ellen,  pausing 
slightly  after  each  word. 

"  Oh,"  said  Anny,  after  a  longer  pause  than  usual. 

"  Sam  can't  be  with  ye  'nless  ye  1'arn  the  book,"  de 
clared  Phoebe  Ellen. 

Sam's  big,  kindly  face  was  full  of  pathos  as  he  inter 
rupted  : 

"  Don't  make  a  bugbear  o'  me — don't  make  'er  hate 
me  !" 

"  Hush  !"  commanded  Phoebe  Ellen. 

Anny  had  crept  closer  to  Sam  along  the  floor  until  she 
could  touch  his  hand. 

"  I'll  1'arn,"  she  said,  turning  her  vacant,  pathetic  eyes 
upon  him,  and  laying  her  cheek  softly  against  his  hand. 
"  I'll  1'arn— I'll  1'arn  !" 

"  That's  a  good  gal,"  commended  Phoebe  Ellen.  "Ye'd 
do  anything  fer  Sam,  wouldn't  ye  ?" 

"  I'll  1'arn — I'll  1'arn  !"  came  the  discordant  refrain. 

"  She  won't  hate  ye,  don't  ye  see  ?"  asked  Phoebe  Ellen. 
"  She'd  do  anything  fer  ye.  'N'  I  know  it  does  'er  good 
to  try.  It's  harder  on  you  'n  anybody  else." 

"I  kin  stan'  it,  if  it's  reely  good  fer  'er,"  said  Sam,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  It  is  good  fer  'er.  If  we  was  to  let  'er  have  'er  own 
way,  she'd  go  back  to  where  she  started.  We  mus'  keep 


186 


'er  a-tryin'.  That's  wot  counts — the  tryin'.  'Tain't  a 
question  o'  wot  she  wants,  bat  o'  wot's  good  fer  'er." 

Sam  knew  she  was  right,  and  said  so. 

"But  it's  so  dreadful," he  added,  turning  away  his  face 
from  the  girl,  who  was  still  caressing  his  hand. 

"  I  know — but  'tain't  a  question  o'  that,  nuther.  'N'  if 
'twas,  it'ud  be  dreadfuller  to  see  'er  go  back  to  wot  she 
was." 

"  Yes,"  Sam  admitted.  And  he  was  glad  in  his  heart 
that  Phoebe  Ellen  was  at  hand  to  urge  him  on  by  her 
wisdom.  Left  to  himself,  he  would  have  acted  on  senti 
ment  altogether,  and  would  have  permitted  the  girl  to  do 
just  as  she  liked,  regardless  of  consequences. 

"How  fur  'd  ye  git  to-day?"  continued  Phoebe  Ellen, 
turning  once  more  to  her  sister. 

"  How  fur  ?" 

The  girl  turned  her  vacant  eyes  first  upon  her  sister, 
then  upon  Sam. 

"How  fur — up  the  mountain  ?" 

"No— how  fur  in  the  book  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  book  !" 

She  fell  a-musing,  while  the  lines  of  her  face  took  a 
downward  turn. 

"No  further,  no  further,  no  further,"  she  intoned,  in  a 
dreary  throat-voice. 

"  Jes'  to  C  ?"  insisted  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  No  further,  no  further,  no  further,"  chanted  the  girl. 

"  But  ye  'membered  A,  didn't  ye  ?" 

"A?    Yes.     I  kin 'member  that.     A  allus  straddles." 

"'N'B?    YeknowedB?" 

"B?    Yes." 

"Was  it  hard?" 

"  Yes.     B's  hard,  but  I  'membered  it." 

"'N'  C  ?" 

"No."  She  shook  her  head  drearily.  "They  grow 
harder  V  harder  'n'  harder.  I  couldn't  'member  C." 


187 


"  But  think  how  good  'tis  to  'member  A  V  B  !  See 
how  fine  'twas  not  to  fergit  'em!  Ye're  a-gittin'  on 
fine." 

Anny  was  still  caressing  Sam's  hand,  as  a  child  might 
have  done.  She  turned  her  wistful  eyes  once  more  upon 
him. 

"  Fine — hey  ?"  she  asked,  wishing  to  be  assured  of  his 
approbation. 

"Yes,  fine  I"  he  asserted,  his  face  serious  with  a  great 
pitying  tenderness. 

"Shore?"  she  insisted. 

"Yes,  ye're  a-gittin'  on  fine.  It  was  fine — fine  't  ye 
'membered  A  V  B  !" 

Her  dull,  anxious  face  lightened. 

"Ye're  glad  to  please  Sam,  ain't  ye  ?"  asked  Phoebe 
Ellen. 

"Yes — glad,  glad  !  I'm  glad  when  Sam's  glad.  I  love 
Sam — he's  good  to  me." 

e"W  when  ye  learn  C,  then  Sam  will  be  glad  —  hey, 
Sam  ?" 

Sam  choked  a  little  as  he  gave  his  assurance  in  the  af 
firmative. 

"  The  C  's  so  hard,  I  know.     It's  hard,  hey  ?" 

"  Hard,  hard  !"  repeated  the  girl,  with  a  dreary  head- 
shake. 

"But  ye'll  keep  on  tryin' — hey  ?" 

She  answered  nothing  for  a  moment. 

"Ye'll  keep  on  tryin',  jes'  to  please  Sam,  hey  ?" 

The  girl  placed  her  cheek  in  the  giant's  big  palm  and 
held  it  there. 

"I'll  try,"  she  said,  smiling  feebly.  And  then,  "I'll 
try — I'll  try — I'll  try  !"  she  chanted,  in  that  discordant 
throat-tone,  which  had  something  horrible  in  it,  as  if  it 
were  the  voice  of  a  departed  spirit  coming  back  and 
speaking  through  a  dead  body. 

"  Pore  thing  !"  said  Pinky,  involuntarily. 


188 


But  Phoebe  Ellen  patted  her  head  kindly. 

"  That's  right/'  she  said.     "  Sis  likes  ye  when  ye  try." 

The  girl  faced  her  with  something  like  eagerness. 

"'N'  Sain?"  she  asked. 

"Sam  likes  ye,  too — when  ye  try." 

"Shore?" 

The  wistful,  vacant  face  was  turned  towards  Sam  now. 

He  nodded  in  answer  —  there  was  something  in  his 
throat  that  would  not  let  him  speak. 

"I'll  try— I'll  try— I'll  try!"  croaked  the  girl.  And 
Sam  took  the  pathetic,  clinging  hand  between  his  own 
and  held  it  there  softly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PINKY  did  his  best  to  inspire  something  of  his  own 
warmth  into  Phoebe  Ellen,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that,, 
as  he  himself  expressed  it,  his  progress  was  of  the  station 
ary  sort.  Permanently  stationary,  too  ;  for  she  was  jeal 
ous  of  advances.  He  had  attained  to  a  certain  point  in 
her  affections — she  really  cared  a  great  deal  for  him  in 
her  way,  though  her  regard  was  subordinate  to  several 
considerations — but  beyond  that  point  he  found  it  impos 
sible  to  go.  She  never  rebuked  him  in  his  love-making, 
except  by  a  retort  or  a  laughing  toss  of  the  head.  Her 
actions  seemed  to  say,  "  Make  me  love  you  if  you  can.  I 
am  quite  willing."  And  in  fact  that  was  precisely  Phoebe 
Ellen's  state  of  mind. 

She  had  not  the  slightest  objection  in  the  world  to  him 
per  se.  He  was  a  good  enough  fellow  and  would  make  a 
good  husband.  She  could  manage  him  without  difficulty, 
and  under  her  direction  he  would  become  an  efficient 
overseer  of  the  ranch.  He  was  honest,  not  too  strongly 
addicted  to  sprees,  and  he  got  on  easily  with  the  boys. 
There  were  advantages  in  the  amalgamation  which  were 
by  no  means  lost  on  Phoebe  Ellen's  sound  business  sense. 
Indeed,  she  often  blamed  herself  for  not  acting  upon  this 
business  conviction  without  delay,  by  accepting  Pinky  as 
a  husband  and  partner,  and  thus  setting  the  whole  affair 
at  rest  at  once  and  forever. 

She  had  no  illusions  about  Pinky.  Intellectually  she 
recognized  him  as  a  little  above  the  average  cowboy.  His 
sheepishness  in  her  presence — she  rather  liked  the  idea 
of  his  never  getting  over  that — was  positive  man-of-the- 


190 


worldliness  compared  with  some  things  of  the  sort  she 
had  seen.  He  was  not  handsome.  She  knew  just  how 
his  face  in  profile  hollowed  in  at  the  nose  and  came  out 
abruptly  in  the  chin — Sam  called  it  an  "ingrowin'  face." 
She  knew  just  how  red  he  was,  how  mottled,  how  easily 
he  turned  purple,  how  frequently  his  beard  was  inter 
rupted  by  great  tracts  barren  of  everything  but  freckles. 
She  knew  just  how  far  his  ears  stood  out  and  how  unfin 
ished  they  looked.  "  They  'ain't  got  no  hem,"  was  her  way 
of  putting  it  to  herself  —  and  how  when  he  laughed  he 
twisted  his  eyes  into  little  crescent  moons  with  the  con 
cave  side  down,  and  how  his  soft,  straight,  yellow  hair 
stood  out  at  unaccountable  angles,  no  matter  from  what 
side  one  viewed  him.  But  the  fact  remained  that  he  was 
acceptable  to  her,  and  that  he  occupied  a  place  in  her 
thoughts  prominent  and  permanent,  if  not  absolute  and 
all-pervading. 

That  kind  of  stationary  courting  is  a  discouraging  thing. 
In  a  way  it  is  worse  than  active  opposition,  for  in  the  lat 
ter  case  a  man  has  at  least  the  advantage  of  a  difficulty 
to  be  overcome,  possibly  a  grievance  to  be  righted ;  and 
either  may  bring  out  the  stronger,  manlier  qualities  of 
the  will.  It  is  worse  than  an  open  rejection,  for  it  gives 
a  lover  no  chance  to  fly  out  and  lose  his  temper,  and  thus 
settle  the  affair  on  a  comfortable  basis  of  permanence. 
But  Pinky  had  nothing  to  do  but  go  on.  It  was  rather 
awful,  in  a  way,  to  go  on  under  the  conviction  that  she 
cared  more  for  another  man  than  for  him.  She  had  all 
but  admitted  the  fact;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  was  more  to 
Pinky's  taste  to  go  on  than  to  back  out  altogether.  There 
was  still  hope  ;  a  bird  may  be  captured  as  long  as  it  re 
mains  in  the  bush,  and  the  question  as  to  its  preferences 
in  the  matter  of  its  captor  is  one  of  little  consequence, 
after  all.  The  important  thing  is  to  get  it  into  one's  hand. 

They  had  many  talks  on  the  subject.  These  were 
largely  repetitions,  but  some  of  them  may  be  recorded. 


191 

"Ain't  I  wutli  waitin'  fer?"  she  demanded  once  when 
he  had  pressed  her  for  some  sort  of  decision. 

"Tain't  a  question  o'  wuth,  nohow,"  was  his  answer. 

"  Oh  !  Then  ye'd  think  jes'  's  much  o'  me  if  I  was 
good  fer  nothin' !  I  like  that !" 

"I'm  willin' to  wait  fer  ye — I've  told  ye  that  afore. 
13ut  Fm  gittin'  to  feel  like  /  may  not  be  waitin'  for  ye, 
arter  all." 

Phoebe  Ellen  pricked  up  her  ears. 

"  You  not  waitin'  fer  me  ?" 

"  How  d'  I  know  but  wot  it's  you 't  's  doin'  the  waitin'?" 
he  asked. 

"  Me  waitin'  ?    How  d'  ye  mean  ?" 

"  There  I  tech  ye  on  the  raw,"  remarked  Pinky. 

"  Wot  be  ye  drivin'  at  ?     Me  waitin' !     Well  1" 

Pinky  understood  her  effort  to  appear  unconscious,  for, 
by  a  tacit  understanding,  they  had  both  ignored  her  semi- 
confession  on  a  former  occasion.  But  he  had  resolved  to 
be  bold  and  make  a  stand. 

"How  d'  I  know  but  wot  it's  you  't  's  waitin'  fer  some 
other  man  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,"  snapped  Phoebe  Ellen,  making  a  great  clat 
ter  among  the  pans  with  which  she  was  busy  (Leather- 
head  was  down  in  the  garden  pulling  turnips),  "if  ye 
want  to  be  jealous,  /  hain't  no  Abjections." 

"I  ain't  jealous," protested  Pinky. 

"  Have  ye  ever  seen  me  makin'  up  to  any  man  ?" 

"Not  out-'n'-out,  's  I  knows  on." 

She  did  not  stop  to  take  exceptions  to  his  answer. 

"  Have  ye  ever  seen  any  man  makin'  up  to  me  ?" 

"No." 

"Well,  then,"  triumphed  Phoebe  Ellen,  setting  away 
her  pans  and  starting  in  on  the  pots  and  kettles. 

She  always  silenced  him,  and  she  liked  him  none  the 
less  for  that ;  but  she  always  knew,  as  well  as  he  did,  that 
she  was  wrong  and  he  was  right  in  the  whole  affair.  Per- 


192 

haps  that  was  one  reason  why  she  did  not  condemn  him 
to  silence  altogether. 

"  Oh,  I'm  willin'  to  wait !"  he  reiterated  at  another 
time,  returning  to  the  ever-recurring  subject,  "but,  say! 
Hain't  I  got  a  right  to  know  for  shore  wot  I'm  waitin' 
f  er  ?" 

Her  answers  were  usually  rapped  out  without  pause  or 
preliminary,  but  now  she  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I've  told  ye  a  hundred  times.  Ye're  a-waitin'  fer  a 
chance  to  marry  me,  if  I  kin  make  up  my  mind." 

"  Then  yer  mind's  the  only  thing  in  the  way  ?" 

"It's  a  big  obstickle,  as  I  said  afore,"  she  remarked, 
gravely. 

"Ef  ye'd  only  say  out-V-out  wot  the  obstickle  is,"  he 
sighed. 

"Well,  I  reckon  ye've  been  a-guessin',  'ain't  ye?" 

"  Guessin'  ain't  knowin'.  Why  can't  we  come  down 
to  facts  ?  I  might  help  ye  out  o'  the  way  with  the  ob 
stickle,  wotever  'tis.  I  might  git  some  sort  o'  moral 
crowbar  under  it  V  give  it  a  roll  clean  out  o'  sight. 
'Tain't  nothin'  agin  me  ?" 

He  knew  it  was  not,  but  he  hoped  her  answer  would 
lead  to  something  definitely  illuminating. 

( '  Say  !"  he  continued,  as  she  remained  silent,  "  I've  a 
big  notion  to  tell  ye  wot  I've  sometimes  thort."  And 
then  he  paused.  Something  in  her  looks  made  it  imper 
ative  that  he  should  not  go  on  without  her  permission. 

"  Oh,  ye  do  sometimes  think,"  said  she,  with  mock 
satisfaction. 

"  If  ye  wouldn't  git  mad—" 

"  I've  got  a  dretful  temper — ye  know  that  yerself." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  that  don't  cut  no  figger.  I've  got 
a  puttickler  good  temper,  'n'  we  kin  strike  a  average." 

"  Oh,  thankee.     How  noble  !" 

"I  like  a  gal  't  kin  howl  the  shingles  off  the  ruff." 

"I  like  that!" 


193 


"  But  all  this  ain't  wot  I  started  in  to  say  I'd  some 
times  thort." 

"It  '11  do  fer  a  sample." 

"No — the  rest 's  better.  Say,  ye  wouldn't  git  too  mad 
if  I  was  to  tell  ye  out-V-out,  would  ye  ?" 

"  Suthin'  'bout  the  obstickle  ?" 

Pinky  nodded. 

"  I  can't  promise/'  she  declared.  "  Ye'll  have  to  chance 
it.  Go  ahead  if  ye  like — but  it's  all  on  yer  own  hook, 
'member  !" 

"  Well,  I  will  take  chances.  A  feller's  got  to  do  suth- 
in'." 

"  Suthin'  in  the  line  o'  takin'  the  bull  by  the  horns  ?" 

Was  she  giving  him  a  tacit  permission  ?  He  thought 
he  saw  signs  of  yielding  in  the  drooping  eyelids  and  in 
drawn  chin. 

"  Wuss  'n  that,"  he  declared.  "Suthin'  in  the  line  o' 
takin.'  a  gal  by  the  heartstrings." 

"  This  'ere's  interesting"  remarked  Phoebe  Ellen. 
"  Well  ?" 

"  They's  other  men  about  the  ranch." 

Phoebe  Ellen  did  not  lift  her  eyes. 

"  While  ye  're  at  it,  ye  may 's  well  make  yerself  plain," 
she  said. 

"It  might  be  they  was  some  other  man  'bout  the  place 
't  you  keerd  fer — " 

"  Oh  !" 

"  Didn't  ye  half  own  up  wunst  ?" 

"Oh!" 

"'N'  it  might  be  he  didn't  keer  fer  you!" 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  Pinky's  heart  went 
through  a  series  of  contortions  which  it  would  be  impos 
sible  to  describe  from  the  outside.  Phoebe  Ellen  turned 
first  pale,  then  red. 

"Half  own  up?  Never!"  she  cried.  "Well,  if  I'm 
any  jedge,  ye've  gone  fur  enough  for  one  day."  After  a 

13 


194 


sideward  glance  at  her,  Pinky  made  up  his  mind  that  she 
had  delivered  herself  more  in  agitation  than  in  anger. 

"I'll  stop,  if  ye  say  so,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "But, 
while  we're  at  it,  hadn't  we  better  have  it  out  ?" 

"  Ye've  hinted  at  the  same  thing  afore — " 

"  'N'  fer  that  very  reason  hadn't  we  better  have  it  out 
now  ?  Then  they  won't  be  no  more  hintin',  'n'  we'll  on- 
derstan'  each  other." 

"  Not  this  time,  not  this  time  !"  she  cried.  "  Wot  d'  ye 
reckon  a  gal's  made  of?  Injy-rubber,  or  iron,  or  wot? 
No,  I've  heerd  'nough  fer  one  day." 

"  Ye're  mad  at  me,"  deprecated  Pinky. 

"Yes,"  she  assented. 

"But  ye'll  git  over  it  V  make  up  ?" 

"  Humph  !"  was  the  only  answer  he  could  get  from  her. 

The  conversation  ended  there  for  that  day,  and  Pinky 
left  with  the  impression  that  Phoebe  Ellen  was  really  very 
angry  with  him,  and  that  he  had  probably  given  her  just 
cause.  He  furthermore  resolved  never  to  broach  the  sub 
ject  again,  but  to  let  affairs  take  their  own  course  without 
any  further  urging  or  interference  on  his  part.  By  affairs 
taking  their  own  course  he  meant  Phoebe  Ellen's  taking 
her  own  course,  and  it  was  very  seriously  borne  in  upon 
him  that  he  would  never  again  question  her  will  in  any 
way,  or  suggest  himself  even  remotely  as  a  possible  means 
of  helping  to  solve  the  problem  of  her  future. 

Arriving  at  the  ranch  a  few  days  later  in  this  humble 
frame  of  mind,  he  was  surprised  that  Phoebe  Ellen  should 
almost  immediately  open  up  the  same  subject  of  her  own 
accord.  It  was  Sunday  again,  and  she  was  reading  a 
Denver  newspaper  when  he  rode  up  and  dismounted. 
But  before  he  was  fairly  seated  she  flung  the  sheet  aside, 
and,  clasping  her  arms  about  her  knee,  faced  him  with  a 
frankness  which  was  almost  eager. 

"Say,"  began  her  introductory  speech,  "ye  'member 
wot  we  was  talkin'  'bout  when  ye  was  over  a- Wednesday  ?" 


195 


<e 


I  'member.  But  I've  dropped  it.  I  ain't  never  agoin' 
to  bother  ye  with  it  no  more." 

"Well,  I  hated  it,  o'  course.  But  Fm  glad  ye  made 
up  yer  mind  to  drop  it.  It  shows  you  keer  fer  my 
feelin's." 

"I  keer  fer  the  hull  o'  ye,  feelin's  V  all/'  Pinky  as 
serted. 

"  That's  all  right !  But  I  been  thinkin'  it  over  a  good 
deal  while  I  been  busy  roun'  the  house,  ye  know." 

"  I  hope  ye  ain't  mad  at  me  no  longer  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't  mad — I  wa'n't  reely  mad  at  the  time.  I 
jes'  hadn't  time  to  git  a  good  fair  look  at  the  matter 
aroun'  the  corners.  'N'  I've  made  up  my  mind  I  hadn't  no 
call  to  git  mad,  nohow.  Ye  said  wot  was  right,  V  ye 
come  at  me  the  right  way  with  it." 

Pinky  heaved  a  long  sigh. 

"  It's  more  'n  I  orter  expect,  I  swear,"  he  said. 

"  Ye  had  the  right  to  do  wot  ye  did.  When  a  feller 
keers  fer  a  gal,  'n'  they're  good  friends,  he  has  a  right  to 
ask  why  she  can't  like  'im  back  agin.  'W  she  orter  tell 
'im." 

Pinky  sighed  again. 

"  If  she  fan,  it  '11  be  a  comfort  to  'im,"  he  said,  meekly. 

"  Well,  I  kin— V  I  will.  It's  only  fair  V  bizness-like. 
I  could  V  told  ye  from  the  fust.  I  did  want  to,  but  some 
how  I  couldn't — it  was  a  lot  o'  gal-nonsense  't  made  me 
keep  still.  Gals  do  have  the  wildest  notions  'bout  love- 
'fairs,  anyhow.  If  a  gal's  in  love  V  the  feller  don't  'spect 
it,  she'd  no  more  think  o'  tellin'  'im  o'  it  'n  she  would  o' 
flyin'  to  the  moon.  Would  she  ?" 

"  Could  you  do  it  ?"  questioned  Pinky. 

"  Couldn't  I  ?  'N'  wouldn't  I  ?  'W  didn't  I  ?  Well, 
I  don't  mean  to  say  I  told  'im  in  so  many  words ;  but 
they's  ways,  they's  ways  !  It  was  when  I  found  he  kep' 
his  eyes  V  ears  shet  a-purpose  't  I  begun  to  haul  in  my 
horns.  I  didn't  want  the  boys  a-sayin'  't  I'd  throwed  my- 


196 


self  at  a  feller's  head  'n'  he  never  even  reached  out  to 
ketch  me." 

"'I  can't  blame  ye/'  said  Pinky,  with  candor.  "That 
sort  o'  thing  tells  agin  a  gal." 

"  Su thin'  kep'  me  from  it,  anyhow.  'N'  I  had  suthin' 
o'  the  same  feelin'  when  ye  up  'n'  at  me  with  it  o'  Wednes 
day.  But  I've  had  time  to  think  it  over.  Now  see  'ere  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Pinky,  all  attention. 

"  We're  good  frien's,  ain't  we  ?" 

"0'  course  !" 

"  Well,  we  kin  talk  it  over  like  frien's,  then  ?" 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I've  allus  wanted." 

"'N'  we  kin  be  sensible,  V  jes'  'cause  we've  talked 
over  the  marry  in'  subjeck,  it  don't  f  oiler  't  we've  got  to 
make  fools  o'  ourselves  ?" 

"  No,"  assented  Pinky. 

"Well,  that's  wot  I  want  —  bizness  fust  'n'  pleasure 
arterwards.  'N'  this  is  bizness.  That's  the  right  basis 
fer  it — it's  a  bizness  transaction.  'N'  I'm  willin'  to  an 
swer  all  yer  questions  now." 

"  Then  ye  do  keer  fer  a  man  't  don't  keer  fer  you  ?" 

"  I  do,"  answered  Phoebe  Ellen,  boldly. 

"  'N'  that  man  is—" 

"  Sam." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  silence  which  followed  was  not  of  long  duration. 
It  was  broken  by  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Here's  cornf essions  I"  she  cried,  with  a  shrill  laugh. 

Pinky  smoothed  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  finished  by 
rubbing  his  chin  with  his  palm. 

She  fetched  a  breath  of  relief  as  from  great  depths. 

"I  feel  better/'  she  declared.  "I  didn't  know  it  was 
weighin'  on  me  so.  Tears  like  a  great  chunk  o'  rock  'd 
been  rolled  oif  'm  me.  If  ye  only  had  suthiii'  to  own  up 
'bout  yerself — ain't  they  a  gal  somers  't  ye  like  better  'n 
wot  ye  do  me  ?  A  gal  't  don't  keer  fer  ye,  but 's  clean 
in  love  with  some  other  feller  ?  That  'ud  even  things 
up." 

"  I'd  own  up  if  they  was.    But  sech  a  gal  ain't  on  airth." 

"Then  you've  got  to  stan'  on  the  nex'  ledge  above  me. 
But  I  ain't  to  blame,  Pinky— I'd  V  helped  it  if  I  could. 
It's  jest  a  piece  o'  that  gal-foolishness  I  was  tellin'  ye 
'bout.  Why  should  I  kecr  more  fer  one  man  'n  another  ? 
They've  all  got  two  legs  'n'  two  han's  ;  they  kin  all  talk ; 
they  kin  all  git  mad  'n'  shoot ;  they  kin  all  git  drunk  V 
feel  funny.  Wot's  the  differ  atween  'em  ?  It's  all  non 
sense  to  pick  out  one  'n'  doat  on  'im.  It  ain't  bizness." 

"Ye've  tried  to  help  it?" 

She  nodded. 

"  I've  set  'im  'longside  o'  every  man  I've  seen ;  I've  said 
to  myself  over  'n'  over  agin  't  I'm  a  fool,  'n'  't  I  like 
Leatherhead  'n'  Doc  Sedgwick  'n'  Stormy  Bill  V  Shootin' 
Ike  jes'  well  's  wot  I  do  Sam;  but  'tain't  no  use.  The 
feelin'  jes'  sticks  't  I  like  Sam  best.  It's  a  queer  world  !"' 


198 

She  heaved  a  sigh.  "  It's  a  queer  world  where  a  gal  can't 
do  wot  she  likes  with  'er  own  feelin's  I" 

"I  kin  see  all  that,"  said  Pinky.  "It'ud  come  to  the 
same  thing  with  me  if  I  tried  to  think  I  keerd  more  fer 
some  other  gal  'n  wot  I  do  fer  you." 

"  Well,  that's  a  sorter  bond,  ain't  it  ?  We  kin  onder- 
stan'  each  other.  D'  ye  know,  I'm  ruther  s'prised  at  us 
a-settin'  'ere  'n'  a-talkin'  it  over  like  this.  It  speaks  well 
fer  us.  Most  folks  couldn't  do  it.  I'd  'a'  tried  it  long 
ago  if  I'd  V  knowed  how  'twas  comin'  out." 

"It  shows  we're  sensible,"  suggested  Pinky. 

"I  knowed  I  was  all  that,  o'  course  —  but  you;  well, 
there  I  looked  fer  suthin,'  I  didn't  know  jes'  wot.  But 
it  helps  ye  up  in  my  'pinion  wonderful.  I  don't  b'lieve 
nothin'  else  could  'a'  done  it.  If  we  was  to  marry,  I  feel 
shore  we'd  git  along." 

"Then  why  shouldn't  we  ?"     Pinky's  voice  was  eager. 

Phoebe  Ellen  considered. 

"  If  we  was  married  ye  could  look  arter  the  boys  V  the 
cattle  on  the  range,  'n'  go  to  the  round-up  in  the  spring 
V  see  't  I  got  my  own  steers  ;  ye  could  'tend  to  the 
plantin'  'n'  harvesting  'n'  ye  could  make  out  yer  report 
to  me  like  ye  do  to  the  railroad.  It  'ud  be  a  lovely 
'rangement  on  both  sides.  We  could  be  o'  use  to  each 
other." 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  do  it,  then  ?" 

"  A  lovely  'rangement,"  she  repeated.     "  Only — " 

"  Only  ?" 

"  Where'ud  my  feelin's  be  ?" 

Pinky's  face  fell. 

"Yer  feelin's  seem  to  be  layin'  'round  so  loose,  like," 
he  said,  pathetically,  "they're  bound  to  be  tromped  on 
whichever  way  we  turn." 

"It's  that  gal  -  foolishness,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  with 
something  like  a  groan.  "If  I  could  git  over  that — " 

"  Ye'll  git  over  it,"  Pinky  assured  her. 


199 


"Well,  when  I  do  git  over  it,  Fll  marry  ye,  Pinky. 
Ye' re  next  arter  Sam." 

"That's  suthiny  remarked  Pinky,  gratefully. 

"  It's  a  heap  !    'W  when  I  git  him  disposed  of — " 

"  Why  not  marry  me  fust  '11'  dispose  o'  him  arterwards  ?" 

"  'Ud  ye  be  willin'  to  do  that  ?" 

"Wouldn't  I  r 

"How  ye  mus'  love  me  !"  remarked  Phoebe  Ellen,  ey 
ing  him  with  renewed  approval. 

"'Tain't  no  name  fer  it !"  he  declared,  following  up  his 
advantage. 

She  considered  a  moment. 

"  Well,  /  wouldn't  be  willin'  to  go  into  a  thing  like  that, 
nohow.  A  gal  can't  sarve  God  'n'  Mammon  in  marryin' 
no  more  'n  wot  she  kin  in  religion.  I've  got  to  git  Sam 
off  'm  my  mind  fust;  V  arter  that  we'll  see  wot  we'll 
see !" 

"  How  d'  ye  'pose  to  git  'im  off  ?  Couldn't  ye  do  it 
quicker  if  ye  was  to  send  'im  away  ?"  questioned  Pinky. 

"  I've  thort  o'  that,  but  wot'ud  life  'ere  be  'thout  'im  ?" 

"  Oh,  Lord  !"  groaned  Pinky. 

"I'm  tellin'  ye  the  truth — I  couldn't  bear  to  stay  'ere 
myself  if  Sam  was  gone.  Mebbe  I'll  git  over  it,  but  that's 
the  way  I  feel  now." 

She  waited  for  Pinky  to  say  something,  but  as  he  re 
mained  silent  she  went  on. 

"  We're  bein'  honest  with  each  other  to-day,  like  good 
friends  orter  be ;  now  lookee  'ere  !  D'  ye  reckon  ye  kin 
stan'  a  bigger  dose  'n  ye've  had  yit  from  me  ?" 

"Go  ahead  !     I  kin  see  aforehand  wot  it's  likely  to  be." 

She  cleared  her  throat. 

"I've  told  ye  I  don't  want  to  send  Sam  off  yit.  But 
the  reason  why — " 

"Ye  ain't  quite  shore  but  wot  ye  kin  git  'im  to  keer 
fer  ye  yit,  if  ye  don't  send  'im  away  ?  'S  that  it  ?" 

Phoobe  Ellen  nodded. 


200 


"  Ye've  said  it  better  'n  I  could,"  she  said,  with  a  long 
breath. 

"I  'spected  it,"  said  Pinky,  without  emotion  other  than 
some  inward  increment  of  sheepishness  which  manifested 
itself  by  a  rush  of  blood  to  his  ears.  Then  after  a  little 
pause,  "It's  only  natural." 

"  It's  natural  fer  anybody  to  git  wot  they  want  if  they 
kin  do  it,"  specified  Phoebe  Ellen.  "  That's  the  bizness 
way  o'  lookin'  at  it.  'N'  we're  talkin'  bizness." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Pinky,  still  undismayed. 

' '  Now,  see  'ere  !  I've  been  a-studyin'  this  thing  over 
V  Fve  come  to  cornclusions.  The  p'int  I  want  to  make 
's  jes'  this  :  Sam  mus'  have  a  chance — see  ?" 

"A  chance  to  keer  fer  ye,  ye  mean  ?" 

"Jes' that." 

"'Ain't  he  had  it?" 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  question,  but  continued  in 
an  off-hand  way,  which  showed  that  she  had  considered 
her  line  of  action  beforehand. 

"I  want  to  give  'im  a  chance  to  like  me.  He  ain't  a 
feller 't  kin  be  brought  aroun'  in  a  minute.  I  want  to  give 
'im  time  ;  I  want  to  give  'im  till  nex'  June." 

"  That  '11  be  a  year,  all  told,  sence  he  knowed  ye." 

"Jes'  so.  'N'  he  orter  know  me  purty  well  by  that 
time.  I  ain't  afeerd  o'  his  knowin'  me  too  well.  Fve 
learned  to  hold  in  my  temper,  V  that  was  my  bigges' 
fault.  Oh,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  hide  my  light  under  a  bushel ; 
V  a  year  orter  be  plenty  o'  time  fer  'im  to  make  out  jes' 
ho\v  bright  'tis — see  ?  Well,  that's  the  way  I've  sized  it 
up.  I'll  give  Sam  till  nex'  June — " 

"'N'  then?" 

"  'N'  then,  if  he  don't  come  to  time,  I'll  send  'im  away. 
That's  the  only  thing  to  do,  as  I  see  it.  Wot  d'  ye  think 
o'  the  plan  ?" 

"I  don't  b'lieve  he'll  ever  keer  fer  ye,"  said  Pinky, 
frankly. 


201 


"Neither  do  I,"  was  her  equally  frank  reply.  " But  I 
want  to  try  'im,  jes'  fer  my  own  satisfaction." 

"  S'posin'  ye  didn't  git  over  yer  gal -foolishness  even 
arter  ye  sent  'im  off  ?"  suggested  Pinky. 

"Ud  ye  refuse  to  marry  me?"  she  inquired. 

"  No  !" 

"  Then  why  not  call  it  a  bargain  ?"  asked  Phoebe  Ellen, 
holding  out  her  hand. 

Pinky  took  the  hand  and  shook  it. 

"  It  is  a  bargain,"  he  said. 

And  with  that  their  conversation  came  to  an  end  for 
that  day. 

They  renewed  it  soon  after,  however,  though  on  some 
what  different  lines. 

"  Say,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  apropos  of  nothing  in  par 
ticular,  "  I  want  to  ask  ye  suthin'.  I've  had  a  idee  in  my 
mind  ever  sence  I  come  to  Collyraydo,  'n'  I  want  to  know 
wot  ye  think  o'  it.  It's  'bout  Sam." 

"  That's  where  all  yer  idees  seems  to  b'long,"  Pinky  re 
marked  without  resentment. 

"  Sam  V  the  everlastin'  gal-foolishness  I  can't  git  red 
of.  I  wanted  to  ast  ye  if  ye  seen  anything  queer  'bout  'im 
the  fust  day  he  met  us  over  there  to  the  depot." 

"Nothing  'thout  it  was  the  way  he  sot  down  on  ye." 

' '  Well,  that  ivas  queer ;  but  I  meant  suthin'  else.  I 
meant  'bout  sis.  'D  ye  see  anything  goin'  on  atween  him 
V  sis  ?" 

"  I  'member  thinkin'  to  myself  he  acted  a  little  gone  on 
'er." 

"  Jes'  so." 

She  folded  her  hands  and  settled  back. 

"That's  wot  I  wanted  to  know,  /noticed  it,  but  I 
wanted  to  make  shore  I  wa'n't  mistook.  Then  the  way 
he  watched  over  'er  arter  she  got  hurt — that  told  a  big 
story  too.  'N'  he  'ain't  been  jest  hisself  sence.  It  all 
means  jes'  one  thing." 


202 

"'T  he's  in  love  with  yer  sister,"  formulated  Pinky. 

She  nodded. 

"  I'd  have  a  better  chance  at  'im  if  he'd  never  seen 
'er,"  she  added. 

"  That's  one  fer  me/'  put  in  Pinky. 

"  It's  a  dozen  agin  me,  though.  Whenever  he  looks  at 
'er,  'pears  like  he  turns  sorter  sorrerful,  like  he  'member- 
ed  how  purty  'n'  bright  she  was  afore  she  was  hurt.  'W 
he's  that  patient  V  kind — sometimes  it  gives  me  a  queer 
feelin'  inside  jes'  to  see  how  good  he  is  to  'er,  V  how  it 
breaks  'im  up.  He's  allus  lookin'  arter  'er  V  doin'  little 
things  to  make  'er  happy.  He  allus  brings  'er  candy 
when  he  goes  over  to  Pete  Hawkins's  place.  'W  he  never 
thinks  o'  me  !  If  he  was  to  look  arter  me  like  he  does 
arter  her — but  there  !  Ye  see  the  gal-foolishness  is  on 
top  agin.  He  never  looks  arter  me,  'ceptin'  in  the  way  o' 
bizness." 

"'Ye  never  '11  git  yer  feelin's  fer  'im  on  a  bizness  basis," 
remarked  Pinky. 

"Anyway,  it  '11  take  a  long  time.  I'd  give  half  the 
ranch  if  I  could,  V  then  me  V  you  could  git  married  V 
live  co mf 'table  on  the  other  half  fer  the  rest  o'  our  days. 
So  ye  kin  see  jes'  where  I  stan'.  My  only  chance  with 
Sam  's  to—" 

"Wot  ?"  asked  Pinky,  as  she  hesitated. 

"  Git  'er  out  o'  the  way,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  deliber 
ately. 

Pinky  had  been  looking  out  towards  the  river,  but  now 
he  faced  her. 

" Git  'er  out  o'  the  way  ?"  His  face  was  pale.  "Git  yer 
own  sister  out  o'  the  way  ?" 

She  was  neither  looking  at  him  nor  thinking  of  him, 
and  she  heard  only  his  last  speech,  uttered  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Ye  mean — ye  mean  ye're  goin'  to  kill  ''er  ?" 

Pinky  stood  erect  and  tremulous. 


203 


It  was  Phoobe  Ellen's  turn  to  be  startled  now.  She 
rose  too,  her  face  as  white  as  death. 

"  Pinky  !"  was  all  she  could  say.  And  she  fell  back, 
covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"  'D  I  hear  ye  wrong  ?"  he  asked,  looking  down  at  her. 

She  dropped  her  hands,  but  made  no  effort  to  look  at 
him. 

"  Pinky,  Pinky,  Pll  never  forgive  ye  fer  this  !"  she 
cried. 

"I  did  hear  wrong  !"  he  cried,  approaching  her  with  a 
look  of  relief. 

"Wrong.?  Wot  d'  ye  think  o'  me  ?  My  own  sister! 
'W  foolish  at  that  I"  She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 
Why  could  she  not  face  him  defiantly  and  give  loud  utter 
ance  to  the  sense  of  outrage  which  came  of  being  so  mis 
interpreted  ?  The  answer  was  ready  in  her  own  mind. 
She  remembered  too  well  the  bloody  thought  that  had 
occurred  to  her  on  the  morning  after  the  accident,  and 
she  could  say  nothing.  She  could  not  utter  the  words, 
"I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing."  They  came  to 
her ;  she  longed  to  repeat  them  in  self-defence,  but  the 
effort  of  utterance  would  have  choked  her.  She  was  inno 
cent  this  time — but  she  had  been  guilty.  And  to  be  sus 
pected  of  such  a  design — to  hear  such  a  voice  outside  her 
own  conscience,  to  understand  its  real  significance  on  the 
lips  of  another,  and,  above  all,  to  be  unable  to  deny  what 
it  implied — gave  her  a  chill  of  horror  which  for  a  moment 
made  her  tongue  useless. 

"Til  go  V  empty  them  weeds  out  o7  my  satchel  afore  I 
sleep  this  night,"  she  promised  herself,  during  the  inter 
val  in  which  Pinky  was  moving  towards  her.  And  with 
the  resolution  came  a  further  calculation,  "I  sha'n't  never 
need  "em  now,  nohow.  She's  foolish — I  won't  never  need 
to  make  7er  crazy  besides.  'JSP  that's  all  't  loco  does." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  in  a  sort  of  doubting  terror. 

"  I  might  V  used  other  words,"  she  managed  to  say, 


204 


recovering  herself  sufficiently  for  speech.  The  sound  of 
her  voice  assured  her.  It  had  not  altogether  the  accent 
of  a  guilty  woman.  "  But  fer  ye  to  think  sech  things  o? 
me—" 

"  Ye'll  tell  me  wot  ye  reely  meant?"  he  finally  asked. 

"  Ud  ye  help  do  sech  a  thing  ?"  demanded  Phoebe 
Ellen,  fixing  her  hard,  gray  eyes  upon  his. 

"  I  was  lookin'  aroun'  fer  my  hat,"  was  his  answer. 
"  'Peared  like  if  that  was  wot  ye  wanted  o'  me  I  couldn't 
git  back  to  Eden  City  too  quick." 

(( >]$>  d>  ye  reckon  Fm  so  much  wuss  'n  you  9" 

"  I  was  wrong,"  said  Pinky,  humbly.  "  'N'  now  ye'll 
tell  me  jes'  wot  ye  did  mean,  won't  ye  ?" 

She  had  complete  control  of  her  voice  now. 

"  I  only  meant 't  she  mus'  be  sent  away.  I  know  a  place 
back  there  in  Nebrasky  where  she  could  be  kep'.  We 
could  give  it  out  't  she  was  goin'to  be  treated.  Sam'ud 
have  to  be  made  to  b'lieve  that  she  could  come  back  any 
time  arter  nex'  June." 

Pinky's  misinterpretation  made  him  even  more  ready 
than  he  otherwise  would  have  been  to  accept  her  expla 
nation  and  to  bring  about  the  result  she  desired. 

"  I  want  ye  to  help  me,"  she  continued.  "  That's  why 
I'm  tellin'  ye  all  this.  I'll  never  marry  ye,  never,  till  I've 
had  a  fair  show.  I  want  a  chance,  Pinky — I  want  a  chance  ! 
A  chance  fer  my  own  happiness,  I  mean — a  chance  to  mar 
ry  the  man  I  love.  I  never  keerd  fer  a  man  like  I  do  Sam; 
I  never  kin  keer  fer  'nother."  She  had  forgotten  her  hor 
ror  at  Pinky's  mistake,  and  the  tears  were  burning  hot  be 
hind  her  eyelids.  "  Gimme  the  chance  I  want — ye  kin  do 
it*  They'd  be  good  to  'er  back  there.  That  was  all  I 
meant." 

Pinky  took  a  moment  to  consider. 

"  Ye'll  help  me  ?"  Phoebe  Ellen  asked,  appealingly. 

"  How  soon  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  ye  when  the  time  conies." 


205 


And  with  that  she  left  the  room,  intending  to  fulfil  the 
promise  she  had  made  to  herself  to  burn  up  the  loco-weed 
in  her  sachel  without  delay ;  but  Anny  came  limping  in 
at  that  moment,  dragging  Sam  by  the  hand. 

"Wot  if  I  should  need  it,  arter  all?"  she  thought,  a 
twinge  of  jealousy  passing  through  her  as  she  saw  the  two 
together. 

And  the  deed  was  left  undone. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

CERTAINLY  Anny  was  improving.  Phoebe  Ellen  no 
ticed  it  from  day  to  day ;  so  did  Sam ;  so  did  Leather- 
head  ;  and  Pinky  declared  the  improvement  most  marked. 

One  day  she  and  Phoebe  Ellen  were  in  the  kitchen  do 
ing  up  the  after-dinner  work.  There  was  an  unusual 
flush  in  her  soft,  rounded  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  for  the 
moment  had  almost  recovered  their  former  lustre. 

"  It's  lonesome,  it's  lonesome,"  she  said,  in  her  queer, 
unmanageable  voice.  "  Oh,  it's  lonesome  when  Sam's 
gone  on  the  range." 

She  was  wiping  dishes  by  the  kitchen  window  and 
Phoebe  Ellen  was  busy  about  the  sink. 

"  Ye  mustn't  think  s'  much  o'  Sam/'  said  the  latter, 
emptying  out  a  panful  of  water,  and  pausing  with  her  dish 
cloth  in  mid-air  while  the  water  gurgled  down  the  pipe. 

"  Why  ?"  questioned  Anny,  with  an  arrested  look  which 
seemed  capable  of  full  comprehension. 

"  Because  it  ain't  nice." 

"  Not  nice  ?" 

"  Gals  ortn't  to  keer  too  much  fer  the  men,"  was  the 
answer. 

"Why  ?"  came  the  discordant  iteration. 

"  'Cause  'tain't  nice." 

"Oh,  why?" 

"  Well,  now,  you  jes'  take  my  word  fer  it.  It  ain't  nice, 
'n'  that's  all  they  is  'bout  it.  'N'  I  know  nice  things  when 
I  see 'em." 

"Not  nice  to  like  Sam  ?"  The  girl's  face  looked  dis 
tressed. 


207 


"That's  wot  I  said." 

Army's  brows  twisted  themselves  into  a  faint  frown. 

"/think  it's  nice/'  she  declared. 

Phoebe  Ellen  looked  up  surprised.  She  had  never 
beard  her  sister  speak  so  positively  since  the  accident. 

"  It  ain't  nice  jes'  the  same/''  she  declared.  "  If  he  was 
to  go  'way  V  leave  ye— well/ud  ye  call  that  nice  ?" 

Anny  was  unable  to  detect  the  fallacy  in  her  sister's 
reasoning,  but  the  idea  of  Sam's  going  away  started  her 
off  on  a  new  track.  After  the  first  look  of  dread,  a  faint 
smile  came  into  her  pretty,  vacant  features. 

"Oh,  he  won't  go  'way,"  she  answered,  with  confi 
dence. 

"Ye  never  kin  tell.  Men  is  powerful  onsartain.  Here 
to-day  V  gone  to-morrer.  He  might  pack  up  V  leave  in 
the  night,  fer  all  we  know." 

"  Sam  won't  go,"  repeated  Anny,  in  the  same  tone  of 
confidence. 

Phoebe  Ellen  made  a  dab  at  the  sink  with  her  rag  and 
began  to  scrub  vigorously.  She  wanted  to  accustom  Anny 
to  the  idea  of  a  separation  from  Sam,  and  she  knew  of  no 
better  way  than  to  proceed  as  she  had  begun. 

"  I  tell  ye  he's  more  likely  to  'n  not,"  she  declared,  hold 
ing  her  face  low  over  her  work. 

"No — no,"  repeated  Anny. 

Suddenly  Phoebe  Ellen  looked  up. 

"  That's  silly,"  she  affirmed.     "  Ye're  actin'  silly  now." 

"  Silly  to  make  shore  Sam  keers  fer  me  ?" 

"Yes,  V  not  to  take  my  word  't  he  may  go  'way." 

"He  says  he  likes  me,"  said  Anny,  simply. 

"All  the  same  he  may  take  a  fit  V  go.  'N'  then  if  ye 
keerd  so  much  fer  'im,  wot'ud  ye  do  ?" 

Anny  set  her  plate  down  on  the  table,  rolled  her  drying- 
towel  into  a  ball  in  her  hands,  and  stood  for  several  min 
utes  staring  straight  before  her. 

"  I  ain't  seen  'er  when  she  looked  like  she  was  thinkiii' 


208 


so  fast/'  said  Phoebe  Ellen  to  herself — " not  sence  she  got 
hurt.  Wot  11  she  fin'lly  say,  I  wonder  ?" 

Evidently  the  girl's  thoughts  had  wandered  far,  for  her 
first  words  seemed  altogether  irrelevant. 

"  The  purty  little  yaller  chicken  wot  the  waggin  run 
over  wunst — ye  'member  it  ?"  she  finally  asked. 

"  Is  she  gittin'  loonier  'n  ever  ?"  was  Phoebe  Ellen's  first 
thought.  But  aloud  she  said  : 

"Yes;  I  'member." 

"Wot  'd  it  do  ?  I  can't  think/'  said  the  girl,  in  a  dis 
tressed  voice. 

"  Do  ?     It  laid  still/'  said  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Suthin'  more,  suthin'  more/'  cried  Anny.  "  It  laid 
still,  but  it  done  suthin'  more  !" 

"  Why,  it  died.     Is  that  wot  ye  mean  ?" 

"  It  died,"  repeated  Anny,  nodding  her  head  slowly. 

Phoebe  Ellen  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Ye  mean  ye'd  die  too,  if  Sam  was  to  go  ?" 

She  kept  on  nodding  in  the  same  mechanical  way  as  she 
picked  up  her  dish,  shook  out  her  towel,  and  went  to  work 
again. 

"  I'd  die,"  she  kept  repeating.  "  If  Sam  was  to  go,  I'd 
die,  I'd  die  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  shivered.  Then,  turning  suddenly  upon 
the  girl  : 

"  'Udye  ruther  go  yerself  ?"  she  asked. 

"Me?     Go?" 

"  'N'  Sam  stay  'ere.     Wot  then  ?" 

"  I'd  die,  I'd  die,"  chanted  the  girl,  in  a  tone  which  split 
into  discord  and  made  a  horrible  sound  in  her  throat. 

Phoebe  Ellen  said  nothing  more  just  then,  but  later  in 
the  afternoon,  when  they  were  seated  together  on  the  ve 
randa,  she  took  up  the  subject  once  more. 

"Ye  'member  how  purty  the  world  looks  when  ye 
stan'  high  up  on  the  mountain  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Anny,  rocking  busily  back  and  forth  in  her 


209 


chair.  "  I  'member — I  'member."  She  nodded  her  head, 
several  times,,  and  then  peeped  out  under  the  veranda 
eaves,,  where  she  could  see  the  tops  of  the  foot-hills. 

"  Sam  took  ye  up  there  wunst,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  It's  purty,  purty,  purty  up  there  !"  intoned  the  girl,  in 
her  high,  cracked  voice.  "  Sam  went  with  me,  'n' I  had  a 
fine,  fine  time  I" 

"  Ye  kin  see  'way  off,  ever  'n'  ever  so  fur." 

"'Way  off — 'way  off  !     Sam  told  me  he'd  been  there." 

"  Wouldn't  ye  like  to  go  there  too,  some  day  ?" 

"  Some  day  ?" 

"  Jes'  to  see  how  it  looks  clost  to." 

"  Oh  yes,  where  Sam  was.  He  tole  me  'bout  it,  'way 
off—" 

"  Mebbe  I'll  let  ye  go,  if  ye're  good." 

"  I'll  be  good  !" 

But  the  childish  eagerness  in  the  face  gave  way  first  to 
a  look  of  vacancy,  then  of  wistfulness. 

"  Sam  kin  go,  too  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No  ;  Sam  '11  have  to  stay  to  hum  'n'  work." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  to  go  !" 

"  But  if  ye  had  to  go  ?" 

"No,  I  won't  have  to  go;  I'll  stay.  Where  Sam  is,  I 
want  to  be.  It's  lonesome,  lonesome,  lonesome,  when 
Sam's  gone  on  the  range.  He's  been  gone  all  day.  'LI 
he  never  come  back  ?  Ain't  it  time  fer  'im  to  be  back 
now  ?  Wot.  makes  ye  talk  like  this  when  he's  gone  ?" 

"  It's  a  purty  world  out  there.  They's  houses  'n'  folks 
'n'  purty  things  in  stores  wot  ye  could  buy  with  money. 
'N'  ye  could  take  a  long  ride,  fust  on  the  buckboard  'n' 
then  on  the  cars — " 

"  I  should  die — I  should  die  'thout  Sam  !" 

"  But  if  Sam  couldn't  go  ?" 

"Then  I  couldn't,  nuther.  I  want  Sam.  Sam's  my 
sunshine — Sam's  my  star.  I  should  die  'thout  Sam,  I 
know  !" 

14 


210 


The  monotonous  iteration  wore  on  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  "bout  it  no  more/'  she  said,  crossly. 

"  'W  I  won't  have  to  go  ?" 

"  If  I  tell  ye  to,  ye'll  go — ye  kin  make  shore  o'  that," 
she  declared. 

But  Anny's  face  grew  clouded  as  she  realized  she  had 
displeased  her  sister. 

"  Sis  is  cross,"  she  said,  wistfully.     "  Why,  why  ?" 

"  'Cause  ye're  a  stubborn  thing  !"  was  the  fierce  answer. 

And  Anny  tried  to  think  what  she  had  done  to  deserve 
such  treatment,  but  vainly.  However,  she  was  too  accus 
tomed  to  puzzling  over  things  to  be  troubled  long  by  her 
inability  to  understand  ;  and  presently  she  wandered  out 
on  the  mountain-side  and  sat  down  in  the  sun,  where  the 
chipmunks  came  frisking  and  chattering  about  her. 

"I  know  wot  they  say,  but  I  can't  tell  it,"  she  used  to 
declare.  And  often  it  seemed  to  Sam  that  the  girl  told 
the  truth. 

And  as  Phoebe  Ellen  sat  on  the  porch  with  her  mend 
ing  she  saw  Sam  whisk  up  to  the  barn  on  his  scraggly 
little  mustang  and  enter  at  the  back  door. 

"  I  wonder  if  he's  had  his  dinner,"  she  pondered. 
"  Prob'ly  he  has,  over  to  Halstead's.  If  he  ain't,  I  kin 
warm  over  them  mashed  pertaters  'n'  give  'im  some  ham 
V  eggs." 

Presently  he  emerged  from  the  barn  with  his  pipe  in 
his  mouth. 

"  If  he  ketches  sight  o'  sis,  he'll  start  straight  torrards 
'er  unless  he's  hungry,"  she  thought.  And  she  watched 
to  see  what  direction  his  steps  would  finally  take. 

And,  sure  enough,  after  a  leisurely  glance  in  all  direc 
tions,  his  eye  fell  on  Anny  as  she  sat  full  in  the  sun  on 
the  mountain-side ;  and  without  a  glance  at  Phoebe  Ellen 
he  turned  to  the  left,  skirted  the  corral,  crossed  the  over 
flow  from  the  spring,  and  swung  upward  among  the  pines 
with  long  strides. 


211 

"That's  allus  the  way,"  said  Phcobe  Ellen  to  herself. 
"  Whenever  he  ain't  busy  'n'  she's  alone,  ye'll  find  'em 
driftin'  together  's  shore  's  two  chips  on  a  tub  o'  water. 
Wot  kin  he  see  in  'er  now,  I  wonder  ?  I  know  she  was 
purty  V  had  nice  ways  when  she  was  herself.  She  could 
talk  interesting  too,  'n'  I  didn't  blame  'im  fer  takin'  to  'er 
the  fast  time  they  met.  But  now — I  wonder  if  she'll  'mem 
ber  wot  I've  been  sayin'  to  'er  'bout  goin'  off  V  leavin'  'im? 
I  shouldn't  be  s'prised.  She's  been  pickin'  up  wonder 
ful  lately,  even  in  looks.  Her  mem'ry  's  twicet  's  good  's 
'twas  a  month  ago,  only  she  can't  1'arn  books.  She  ain't 
got  beyend  0  yit.  But  she  kin  foller  wot  ye  say  better, 
'n'  she  kin  tell  'er  own  thorts  straighter.  Well,  wot  if 
she  does  let  'im  know  ?  He  might  's  well  be  gittin'  ready 
fer  it.  She's  got  to  go." 

And  she  picked  up  her  mending  and  set  to  work  with  a 
grim  look  about  her  hard,  thin  mouth. 

Sam  seated  himself  on  a  rock  around  which  the  vetches 
grew  thick  among  the  mountain-sage,  and  some  late  blue 
bells  swayed  lightly  among  heavy  purple  tufts  of  early 
asters. 

"'N'  how's  the  chipmunks  to-day?"  was  his  greeting 
as  he  drew  up  his  big  feet  and  clasped  his  hands  between 
his  knees.  "  Talkin'  same  's  ever  ?" 

"Jes'  the  same,"  Anny  intoned,  smiling  back  at  him. 
"Jes'  the  same  's  ever  !" 

He  blew  a  leisurely  whiff  of  smoke  into  the  air. 

"  Ye  look  oncommon  smart  to-day,"  he  remarked,  fix 
ing  his  kind  dark  eyes  upon  her.  "Oncommon  smart,  I 
swear  !" 

"Smart?  Yes.  So  's  the  chipmunks.  The  little  un 
there  with  the  stripes  so  plain  up  'n'  down  his  back  's  been 
tellin'  me  'bout  the  pine-nuts  he's  got  stored  up  in  a  hol 
ler  tree  jest  up  the  hill.  Sech  a  lot  o'  'em  stored  up  in  a 
cosey  dark  corner — he  tole  me  'cause  he  said  he  knowed  I'd 
never  go  'n'  steal  'em  away.  'N'  the  big  un  't  run  away 


when  ye  come  up — he  ain't  half  's  brave  's  wot  he  makes 
out ! — he  was  jes'  tellin'  me  how  nothin'  ever  skeerd  him 
now  ;  he'd  got  used  to  folks  'n'  stood  still  'n'  made  faces 
at  'em  when  they  come  by  !" 

f '  'N'  I  skeerd  'im  away,  hey  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  when  he  run  he  looked  over  his  shoulder 
'n'  -promised  to  come  back.  He  seen  I  needed  'im." 

"Needed  'im  ?"  inquired  Sam  between  whiffs. 

She  nodded  gravely. 

."I  was  feelin'  sorter  blue,  'n'  he  seen  it, 'n'  said  he'd 
stay  'n7  comfort  me.  'N'  he  did ;  'n'  he  tole  me  to  cheer 
up  V  not  keer.  He  said  he'd  had  troubles,  too,  but  they 
passed  off.  He  said  everything  allus  comes  out  right." 

"  Troubles  ?" 

' '  He  didn't  have  time  to  tell  me  all  'bout  'em,  but  he 
talked  jes'  's  sensible  !  He  said — " 

"But  troubles  ;  you  hain't  got  no  troubles,  now,"  said 
Sam. 

"  I  don't  have  many,  do  I  ?"  The  lines  of  the  wistful, 
vacant  face  became  set  in  a  deprecative  smile.  "  Some 
how  I  don't  feel  things.  I  feel  like  I  orter — I  sorter 
'member  when  I  did  ;  but  I  can't  do  it  now.  They  ain't 
nobody  but  you  'n'  sis  wot  I  keer  fer — reely." 

"Ye  do  keer  fer  me  ?"  asked  Sam,  softly.  He  re 
moved  his  pipe  and  sat  regarding  her  with  a  sort  of  rever 
ence. 

"  Oh,  ye  know  I  do — I've  told  ye  over  'n'  over.  But 
other  things — somehow  I  don't  keer.  I  ain't  allus  happy, 
but — I  can't  tell  how  'tis  !  I  don't  cry  much,  nuther, 
not  's  much  's  wot  I'd  like  to ;  but  they's  suthin' — 
suthin'— " 

"  Gone  out  o'  ye,  somehow  ?"  suggested  Sam. 

She  caught  at  the  words  eagerly. 

"  Gone  out  o'  me — yes,  gone  out  o'  me  ;  that's  wot  I 
meant.  Gone  out  o'  me — oh,  like  I  ain't  wot  I  was  long 
ago." 


213 


"  Afore  ye  got  hurt  V  was  sick  ?" 

Sam's  pipe  had  gone  out  now,  and  after  noticing  the 
fact  in  an  absent  way,  he  withdrew  the  stem  from  the  bowl, 
as  his  custom  was,  and  thrust  them  both  into  his  pocket. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,,  dreamily — "sometimes  I  kin 
almos'  'member — I  strain  my  mind,  'n'  I  kin  almos'  'mem 
ber.  But  suthin'  allus  stops  me.  It's  like — " 

"Like  what?"  he  suggested,  as  she  hesitated.  And 
she  went  on  with  a  catching  of  her  breath. 

"It's  like  a  cloud  on  the  mountain — ye  look  V  look, 
'n'  ye  can't  see  the  mountain,  though  ye  allus  know  it's 
there." 

Sam  had  never  heard  her  talk  so  lucidly  and  con 
nectedly. 

"The  cloud  allus  goes,"  he  said,  gently,  "'n'  the 
mountain  comes  out  clear." 

She  fetched  another  long  breath,  and  this  time  there 
was  something  like  a  sob  in  it. 

"If  it'ud  only  go  so  't  I  could  look  back  to  wot  I  was 
afore  I  got  hurt  that  day !  'LI  it  ever  go  so  't  I  kin  do 
that,  d'  ye  reckon  ?" 

"  Ye're  a-gittin'  better  right  along,"  he  assured  her. 

"  Shore  ?" 

"  Doc  says  ye're  better  every  time  he  sees  ye/'  he  de 
clared. 

"  I  like  the  Doc.  He's  allus  good  to  me.  Do  I  act  bet 
ter  ?  I /^better!" 

"  Ever  s'  much  better — ever  '11'  ever  s'  much  better.  If 
ye  keep  on,  ye  will  git  well,  I  feel  shore  o'  it !"  His  face 
had  lighted  up,  and  hers  caught  an  answering  glow. 

"Mebbe  —  mebbe,  by-'n'-by/'  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  in  a  sort  of  spasm — "mebbe  I'll  be  myself  agin. 
Oh,  if  I  could—" 

"Ye're  improvin'  right  along,"  he  iterated. 

"It's  a  dretful  thing  not  to  know  anything  'bout  yer- 
self  but  wot  folks  tells  ye  !" 


214 

She  rose  with  a  convulsive  jerk,  and  faced  him  as  if  she 
were  flinging  aside  a  veil  which  obscured  her  sight.  Then, 
all  at  once,,  instead  of  the  burst  of  light  he  half  expected 
to  see  in  her  eyes,  a  dazed  look  came  into  her  face,  a  sort 
of  film  such  as  he  had  before  seen  grow  into  her  features 
after  her  mind  had  been  subjected  to  too  severe  a  strain. 

"  Don't  worry,  don't  worry  'bout  it,"  he  said,  sooth 
ingly.  "It  '11  come  right — it  '11  come  right." 

Her  eyes  cleared  a  little,  as  if  his  voice  had  power  to 
dispel  the  clouds  which  enveloped  her. 

"The  chipmunks  don't  have  reel  troubles,  do  they?" 
she  asked,  as  she  seated  herself  at  his  feet.  "Not  reel 
troubles  like  mine.  They  don't  worry.  Why  should  I  ?" 

"  No,  don't  worry.  Be  's  glad 's  ye  kin.  Only  be  glad 
—that's  the  best !"* 

"I'm  happy  when  ye're  with  me."  Her  face  had 
brightened  once  more.  Then  she  remembered  Phoebe 
Ellen's  vague  insinuations.  "  But  sometimes  when  I'm 
alone  with  sis — " 

"  What's  she  been  sayin'  to  ye  ?" 

"  Sech  dretful  things  !" 

"  Things  to  make  ye  onhappy,  hey  ?" 

She  nodded,  and  he  could  see  that  her  throat  was  flut 
tering. 

"Ye  ain't  agoin'  away,  be  ye  ?"  she  broke  out.  "Tell 
me,  ye  ain't  agoin'  away  ?" 

Sam  opened  his  eyes  very  wide. 

"She  told  ye  I  was  ?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  dumbly.     Then,  with  an  effort : 

"She  said  ye  might." 

"No,  no,"  he  soothed  her,  "I  ain't  goin'  away." 

The  piteous  face  brightened  again,  and  the  girl  crept 
close  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his  knee. 

"I  told  'er  ye  wouldn't,"  she  declared.  "I  told  'er  I 
knowed  ye  wouldn't  leave  me.  I  knowed  ye  keerd  for 
me.  I  told  'er  so." 


215 

His  big  hand  fell  softly  upon  her  hair. 

"No  ;  I  won't  leave  ye,"  he  repeated. 

"Never?" 

"  Never."  He  uttered  the  word  solemnly.  It  was  like 
a  vow. 

She  lifted  her  shoulders  in  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  knowed  ye  wouldn't — I  knowed  ye  wouldn't,"  she 
kept  repeating  to  herself.  Then,  after  a  long,  vacant  stare 
at  the  mountains,  as  if  her  mind  were  wandering,  she  came 
once  more  to  herself.  "  If  she  was  to  send  me  away,  ye'd 
go  with  me,  wouldn't  ye  ?"  she  asked,  her  old  wistfulness 
returning. 

"  Yes,"  he  assured  her.  "  I'd  go  with  ye,  wherever  she 
sent  ye." 

"  She  said  I  might  go  'way,  ye  know/' 

"Yer  sister?" 

She  nodded  vacantly. 

"  Her.     Down  there,"  she  said,  pointing. 

Again  Sam's  eyes  opened  wide  and  his  brows  went  up. 

"  Ye  might  be  mistook  'bout  'er  sayin'  that,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

"Mistook  ?"  she  repeated,  with  vague  inquiry. 

"Ye  might  V  thcfrt  she  said  it  when  she  didn't."  He 
was  thinking  how  she  heard  the  flowers  and  animals  talk. 

"No,"  she  said,  very  seriously,  and  Sam  knew  that  she 
spoke  the  truth.  "  She  said  "t  mebbe  I'd  have  to  go  'way. 
I  heerd 'er.  She  was  stan'in' by  the  sink.  She  was  cross." 

Sam's  brows  came  down  as  he  meditated. 

"  Did  she  say  ye'd  have  to  go  fer  shore  ?" 

"No;  only  mebbe." 

"  Did  she  say  why  ?" 

"No  ;  only  't  mebbe  I'd  have  to  go." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sam,  slowly,  after  his  habitual  pause.  "  I 
onderstan',  I  onderstan'."  He  reached  down  and  took 
both  Anny's  hands  in  his.  "  Has  it  tired  ye  to  talk  s' 
much  ?"  he  asked,  tenderly.  "  Yer  face  looks  worn  out. 


216 

Don't  worry,  little  un — don't  worry.  Sam  '11  look  arter 
ye.  Sam  '11  allus  be  roun'  to  see  't  things  goes  right.  'W 
if  I  leave,  ye  shall  go  with  me  ;  V  if  ye  leave,  I'll  foller. 
Ye  b'lieve  me,  don't  ye  ?  Don't  worry.  Stay  'ere  V  talk 
some  more  to  the  chipmunks — they're  merry  little  chaps, 
V  '11  cheer  ye  up.  Or  if  ye  feel  like  it,  lay  down  on 
the  pine-needles  'n'  go  to  sleep.  I  got  some  things  to 
look  arter  down  to  the  barn." 

He  bent  with  the  light  of  love  in  his  kind  eyes  and 
kissed  the  girl's  forehead  as  reverently  as  the  devotee 
might  have  kissed  the  brow  of  a  pictured  saint.  Then  he 
left  her  with  a  forward  fling  of  his  huge  body,  and  landed 
at  the  bottom  of  the  mountain  in  three  strides. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

PHOEBE  ELLEN'S  kindness  for  Sam  became  more  and 
more  apparent  as  time  went  on,  and  the  nods  and  winks 
of  the  cowboys  became  pronounced  to  the  point  of  vio 
lence.  As  for  Sam,  he  was  conscious  in  a  half-amused 
way  that  he  was  overwhelmingly  approved  of.  He  would 
have  been  more  or  less  than  human  had  he  been  blind  to 
his  mistress's  side-glances  or  deaf  to  the  softened  tones  in 
which  she  addressed  him  after  addressing  another.  He 
had  a  sort  of  elephantine  alertness  to  the  bits  of  ribbon 
she  stuck  on  in  becoming  places  when  no  one  but  him 
was  likely  to  be  around,  and,  more  than  all,  he  had  an  eye 
to  the  occasions  she  found  for  being  alone  with  him,  too 
frequent  for  the  discussion  of  the  business  of  the  ranch, 
and  often  running  into  personal  themes  altogether  after 
the  few  introductory  words  on  the  condition  of  the  cattle 
over  Baldwin  way,  or  the  advisability  of  putting  in  alfalfa 
on  the  slope  beyond  the  river  where  irrigation  was  im 
practicable. 

Sam  saw  these  things  truly,  but  he  gave  them  a  mild 
interpretation.  He  was  not  a  lady's  man,  and  saw  noth 
ing  in  the  average  petticoat  beyond  the  probable  price  of 
the  goods  it  was  made  of.  Had  he  stopped  to  analyze  his 
feeling  for  Phoebe  Ellen  he  would  have  found  it  to  be 
something  in  the  nature  of  the  magnanimous  tolerance  of 
a  healthy  man  for  a  hysterical  woman  whose  spasms  would 
probably  never  turn  violent  —  at  least,  in  his  presence. 
That  she  cared  enough  for  him  to  make  a  fight  for  him, 
or  that  he  was  in  any  way  worth  fighting  for,  never  entered 
his  head. 


218 

Even  after  his  conversation  with  Anny  on  the  moun 
tain-side  his  eyes  were  not  fully  opened.  Something  was 
abroad  which  he  did  not  understand  —  something  which 
concerned  himself,  inasmuch  as  it  concerned  the  afflicted 
girl  in  whom  his  interest  centred  more  than  in  any  other 
human  being.  The  talk  of  her  going  away  had  a  mean 
ing — he  could  not  tell  just  what.  He  could  hardly  be 
lieve  that  her  statement  had  originated  altogether  in  her 
imagination ;  he  had  never  seen  her  so  clear-headed,  so 
nearly  herself,  since  the  accident.  And  yet  in  the  same 
breath  she  had  babbled  about  what  the  chipmunks  said 
and  a  hundred  things  which  were  utterly  without  founda 
tion  in  fact. 

"If  they's  anything  in  it,  I  mus'  know  it,"  was  his 
thought.  "I'll  hang  roun'  the  ranch  more  '11  Fve  been 
doin',  V  let  the  range  look  arter  itself.  Wot  I've  got  to 
do  's  to  keep  my  eyes  V  ears  open,  V  put  things  together 
'n'  onderstan'  'em." 

While  he  was  in  this  state  of  expectancy  he  got  a  real 
revelation.  It  came  from  Pinky,  as  the  two  were  driv 
ing  over  from  Eden  City  to  the  ranch. 

Ever  since  Pinky  had  acquiesced  in  the  arrangement  to 
wait  till  next  June  for  a  definite  answer  to  his  suit, 
the  depot-man  had  been  in  a  state  of  agitation  about  one 
thing.  He  wanted  to  make  sure  of  Sam's  potential  feel 
ings  for  the  heiress.  He  had  no  reason  to  believe  that 
the  giant  cared  for  her  on  any  other  than  the  legitimate 
grounds  of  friendship.  But  he  was  far  from  satisfied. 
And  yet,  why  should  he  not  know  the  whole  truth  ? 
There  could  be  no  possible  objection  on  Sam's  part  to 
an  open  and  frank  avowal  of  sentiments.  Pinky  had 
little  of  the  commodity  about  him  which  is  ordinarily 
known  as  delicacy.  His  actions  were  largely  business  ar 
rangements  throughout,  and  it  was  with  this  understand 
ing  of  his  own  motives  that  he  proposed  to  probe  Sam's 
feelings. 


219 


"  Ye  know  the  missus,"  he  remarked,  in  as  casual  a  way 
as  he  could  assume.  "Her — ye  know;  the  missus  of  the 
ranch." 

Sam  gave  him  a  sideward  glance  of  surprise. 

"Well,  I  should  say,"  was  his  answer,  after  a  deliberate 
study  of  Pinky's  face. 

Pinky  twiddled  his  thumbs  in  rosy  anxiety. 

"Ye  'member  the  fust  time  ye  met  'er  over  there  to  the 
depot  ?"  he  continued. 

Sam  grinned. 

"I  ''member,"  he  answered,  still  with  his  eyes  on  his 
companion. 

"  Ye  'member  how  I  made  up  to  'er,  don't  ye  ?  How 
we  kep'  hollerin'  to  each  other  so  kind  o'  'fectionate  arter 
ye  started  off — hollerin'  till  we  couldn't  hear  each  other 
no  more  ?" 

Sam's  grin  grew  broader. 

"I  'member,"  he  repeated. 

Pinky  rubbed  a  meditative  hand  up  and  down  his  knee 
— an  operation  which  seemed  to  send  the  blood  to  his 
head — and  finished  by  smoothing  the  back  of  his  freckled 
neck. 

"  I  reckon  they  wa'n't  no  diseountin'  the  meanin'  o'  it — 
leastways  on  my  side,"  he  remarked. 

Sam's  grin  had  hitched  up  the  corners  of  his  big 
mustache  to  a  level  with  his  nose. 

"  Oh,  it  was  easy  'nough  onderstan'in'  you"  he  re- 
remarked. 

"  Well,"  said  Pinky,  his  embarrassment  subsiding  a  lit 
tle  as  he  found  himself  well  under  way,  "  I've  kep'  the 
same  thing  a-goin'  ever  sense — ye'll  have  to  own  up  to 
that." 

"  That's  right !"  was  Sam's  affirmative  response. 

" 'W  I'm  a-goin'  to  keep  it  up.  When  I  see  a  thing  I 
want,  whether  it's  a  pipe  or  a  stick  o'  chewin'-gum  or  a 
gaL  I  git  it  if  I  kin.  They  ain't  none  o'  yer  stan'-up-in- 


220 


the-corner-V-holler-fer-buttermilk  'bout  me.  I  go  in  to 
win  with  sech  showin's  's  I  kin  find.  'N'  if  I  don't  win — 
well,  there  I  be  !" 

"  No  wnss  off  'n  wot  ye  was  afore/'  commented  Sam, 
relaxing  his  smile  and  giving  a  momentary  attention  to 
the  off  mustang,  who  was  "  sojering." 

"  Jesso.  No  wuss  off  'n  wot  I  was  afore.  That's  the 
way  I  look  at  it — no  wuss  off  'n  wot  I  was  afore.  Well, 
but  her — that's  harder." 

"  That's  so,"  assented  Sam.  "  Gals  is  queer.  Ye  never 
kin  tell  'bout  gals." 

"  A  gal — well,  that's  so.  Ye  can't  tell  where  ye're  at 
with  a  gal,  nohow.  Ye  make  shore  ye  got  'er  solid  when 
— lo  'n'  behold  !  she's  trickled  through  yer  fingers,  'n' 
there  ye  stan'  a-lookiii'  at  'em  with  nothin'  left  but — " 

"  Mud,"  interrupted  Sam. 

"  Mud,"  assented  Pinky,  with  a  grave  nod.  "  That's 
right — nothin'  but  mud.  Somehow,  I  d'  know  how,  but 
'pears  like  it's  a  gal's  way.  'D  you  onderstan'  'er  that  day 
over  to  the  depot  ?" 

Sam's  answer  came  after  a  pause. 

"  Reckon  I  did,"  he  finally  said. 

Pinky  meditated  a  moment,  and  then  it  became  evident 
that  he  caught  the  hidden  meaning  of  the  words. 

"/didn't — not  till  arterwards,"  he  said. 

Sam  raised  his  eyebrows  and  grinned. 

'fl  mean  it,"  declared  Pinky,  quite  seriously.  "  I 
onderstan'  the  hull  darn  bizness,  I  do  !" 

Sam's  amusement  was  altogether  in  his  eyes  as  he 
asked : 

"  Wot  d'  ye  mean  by  the  hull  darn  bizness,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Her  'n'  me  's  talked  it  all  over — well,  that  don't  count 
nohow,  fer  I  knowed  it  afore.  But — lookee  'ere  !  She 
keerd  fer  ye  at  the  start,  she  's  keerd  fer  ye  all  'long,  'n' 
that  'ere  performance  over  to  the  depot  was  her  way  o' 
tryin'  to  bring  ye  to  time." 


221 


8am  turned  to  his  horses,  and  the  look  of  amusement 
died  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  Wot  o'  all  that  ?"  he  inquired,  touching  up  the  mus 
tang  once  more. 

"  Wot  o'  that  ?  It  means  ye've  got  the  inside  track  V 
kin  keep  it  's  long  's  ye  like— that's  wot !  It  means  't  I 
ain't  nowheres."  Pinky 's  tone  was  bitter. 

"  All  this  'ere  ain't  my  fun'ral,"  remarked  Sam,  after 
his  habitual  moment  of  deliberation.  "  Wot  ye  comin' 
at  me  with  it  fer  ?  Why  don't  ye  go  to  her?" 

"  I  did,  V  she  owned  up  to  it,"  declared  Pinky. 
"We  had  to  come  to  a  settlement,  V  she  let  the  hull 
thing  out.  She  likes  me  next  arter  wot  she  does  you — she 
said  so  ;  but  while  they's  a  chance  o'  gittin'  fust  choice,  I 
ain't  nowheres,  o'  course.  She's  jes'  like  me  'bout  gittin' 
wot  she  wants — she  does  it  if  she  kin,  'n'  I  don't  blame  'er. 
Well,  that's  all  right.  But  'tain't  wot  I  started  to  say." 

"  I'm  ready  fer  anything  else,"  said  Sam,  touching  up 
the  off  mustang  again. 

After  a  brief  twisting  in  his  seat  first  in  one  direction 
and  then  in  the  other,  Pinky  continued  : 

"  Wot  I  want  to  know  's  'bout  yerself.  'Ud  ye  mind 
tellin'  me  frank  V  plain  ?  It's  all  atween  me  'n'  you,  'n' 
I  don't  see  wot  harm  it  could  do  to  let  me  know.  'N'  it 
'ud  ease  up  on  me  like  anything  if  I  made  shore  ye  didn't 
keer  fer  'er.  I  know  ye  ain't  never  let  on  like  ye  was 
in  love  with  'er ;  but  a  feller  can't  allus  tell.  It's  jest 
atween  friends,  ye  know.  'Twouldn't  go  no  farther." 

Sam  deliberated. 

"  N-no.  I  d'  know  's  wot  I  mind  tellin'  ye  my  state  o' 
mind,  if  it  '11  make  ye  easier.  But  fust  I  want  to  know 
one  thing." 

Pinky's  red  face  screwed  itself  inquiringly  in  his  direc 
tion.  Sam's  question  came  after  a  pause,  which  gave  it 
weight. 

"  Is  she  goin'  to  make  a  fight  fer  me  ?" 


222 

Pinky  looked  startled. 

Sam's  question  became  a  demand. 

"Is  she  goin'  to  make  a  fight  fer  me  if  I  don't  want 
'er  ?" 

"  She  didn't  say  nothin'  'bout  fightin',"  said  Pinky, 
somewhat  sullenly.  Then,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Sam's 
set  face  :  "Wot  d'  ye  mean  by  fightin',  anyhow  ?" 

"Ye  needn't  let  on  't  ye  don't  onderstan'.  But  I'll 
make  myself  plainer.  Is  she  ready  to  put  some  other  gal 
at  a  disadvantage — I'm  namin'  no  names,  mind — so  's  to 
give  'erself  a  better  chance  ?  Is  that  wot  she's  up  to  ?" 

Pinky's  jaw  dropped. 

"  Good  Lord  !  'S  if  she  would  !  'S  if  they  was  any 
other  gal !"  he  cried.  But  there  was  a  false  note  in  his 
disclaimer. 

"  They  is  another  gal,"  said  Sam,  quietly. 

Pinky  looked  almost  pale. 

"  The  little  un  ?"  he  inquired,  after  a  pause. 

"  'Tain't  no  credit  to  yer  wits  to  know  it  arter  all  ye 
must  V  seen.  I'd  jes'  's  soon  the  hull  world  'ud  know  it — I 
ain't  'shamed.  'N'  the  one  hope  o'  my  life  is  't  she'll  git 
well  ag'in  —  well  'nough  so  't  she'll  know  'er  own  mind 
'bout  marryin'  me,  V  we  can  go  afore  a  justice  o'  the 
peace  'n'  have  the  knot  tied  'thout  my  feelin'  like  I  was 
takin'  a  mean  advantage.  Lookee  'ere  !  I  may  's  well  be 
plain  with  ye.  I  know  wot  the  missus  is  goin'  to  do." 

He  fixed  Pinky's  eye  so  fiercely  that  the  young  man 
turned  away. 

"  She's  goin'  to  send  the  pore  little  gal  out  o'  the  kentry, 
'cause  she  knows  I  keer  fer  'er." 

Pinky's  telltale  color  came  back  with  a  rush  and  the 
truth  stood  confessed. 

"No  matter  how  I  know,"  cried  Sam,  in  answer  to  the 
question  in  Pinky's  face.  "I  know,  V  that's  'nough. 
'N'  ye're  in  the  scheme — I  know  that,  too.  Hey  ?  Be  ye 
goin'  to  deny  it  ?  Ye  might 's  well  own  up." 


223 

Pinky  took  time  to  recover  partially  from  his  crushed 
attitude,  and  then  found  courage  to  say : 

"Well,  it  was  her  idee.  She  wanted  me  to  help  'er,  'n' 
I  didn't  see  how  I  could  git  out  o'  it.  I  don't  see  wot 
wrong  they  is  in  it.  The  gal  'ud  be  well  took  keer  of. 
But  o'  course  if  yer  mind's  made  up  not  to  marry  'er — " 

Sam  flung  his  head  back,  and  there  was  a  light  in  his 
usually  kind  eyes  which  made  Pinky  quail. 

"  My  mind  's  my  own  !"  he  cried.  "  Wot  I  want  to  know 
's  this :  be  ye  goin'  to  tell  the  missus  wot  we've  been 
talkin"bout'  to-day?" 

Pinky's  freckles  stood  out  with  startling  distinctness 
upon  his  thin  skin. 

"If  ye  don't  want  me  to,  o'  course  I  won't,"  he  stam 
mered. 

"  Then  ye  won't,"  said  Sam,  briefly. 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  't  she  has  to  know,"  said  Pinky,  in 
vindication  of  his  ready  compliance. 

Sam  turned  full  upon  him  and  laid  his  huge  left  hand 
upon  his  collar.  Then,  with  a  cold  thrill,  Pinky  realized 
that  the  iron  fingers  were  drawing  together  in  the  cloth 
of  his  coat. 

"If  ye  tell " — Sam  lifted  his  companion  from  the  seat 
and  gave  him  a  little  shake  as  a  testimonial  of  what  he 
could  do  in  that  line  if  he  liked—"  if  ye  do,  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  yer  body  !  Ye  hear  me !" 

Pinky  shrank  together  under  that  grasp  of  iron. 

"  I  won't  tell,"  he  promised,  cowed  like  a  whipped  boy 
under  the  hand  of  his  master.  He  was  dreadfully  fright 
ened,  but  even  so,  he  had  not  lost  sight  of  the  main  point. 
He  wanted  a  definite  statement  from  Sam.  "Then  ye've 
made  up  yer  mind  ye  won't  marry  'er  fer  shore  ?" 

"  Marry  'er  !"  roared  Sam,  facing  him  with  blazing 
eyes.  "I'd  see  'er  in  hell  fust !" 

And  he  lashed  his  horses  into  a  gallop. 

"  I've  seen  'im  mad,  but  never  like  that  afore,"  thought 


224 


Pinky,  shrinking  as  far  as  possible  into  his  corner  of  the 
seat.  "  Shall  I  tell  'er  he  said  he'd  see  'er  in  hell  afore 
he'd  marry  'er  ?  It  might  hurry  up  the  weddin'  fer  me  ; 
but  she'd  be  shore  to  let  it  out,  somehow.  It  'ud  have  to 
come  out  if  she  fired  'im  or  made  more  o'  me  'n  wot  she's 
been  doin'.  No,  I'll  keep  my  mouth  shet ;  I  ain't  ripe 
fer  heaven  jes'  yit.  But  if  I  don't  marry  'er  nex'  June 
all  right,  I'm  a  turkey  !" 

And  the  two  men  exchanged  not  another  word  during 
the  journey. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

FOR  several  days  Sam  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with 
Pinky's  revelation.  He  felt  ready  for  anything,  but  noth 
ing  seemed  as  yet  ready  for  him.  Events  moved  on  at 
such  a  comfortable  jog-trot  that  it  was  difficult  to  imagine 
a  hitch  anywhere  in  the  mechanism  of  the  world.  The 
ranch  people  got  up  early,  worked  hard  at  tasks  which  on 
the  morrow  had  to  be  done  over  again,  glorified  God  in  a 
few  of  their  actions  and  shamed  Him  in  many,  and  went 
to  bed  with  an  unformulated  sense  of  having  lived.  Why 
not  ?  They  put  in  their  time,  and  that  is  what  life  con 
sists  of,  chiefly.  £hey  lived  because  they  didn't  die,  and 
the  wisest  of  us  can  hardly  account  for  ourselves  more 
completely. 

But  it  was  a  season  of  unusual  anxiety  for  Sam.  He 
went  about  with  a  busy  frown  between  his  eyebrows  which 
betokened  a  soul  ill  at  ease.  He  lay  awake  at  night — this 
fact  inclined  him  at  times  to  the  belief  that  he  was  a  sick 
man — trying  to  plan  out  what  he  should  do.  But  he 
never  came  to  any  conclusion  except  that  he  must  wait 
for  some  overt  act  on  the  part  of  the  missus  ;  he  must  be 
ready,  must  have  himself  in  hand,  so  as  as  to  act  vigorous 
ly  at  a  moment's  notice — vigorously  to  the  extent  of  vio 
lence,  if  the  need  should  rise. 

"  I  know  the  little  un  wouldn't  want  to  go,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  if  she  had  'er  way  'bout  it ;  I  know  she'd  rtither 
stay  'ere  where  I  be.  'N'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stan'  aroun* 
V  see  'er  carted  off  like  she  was  a  bag  o'  meal  or  a  sick 
calf,  jes'  'cause  she  ain't  got  the  will  to  stan'  up  fer 
'erself.  /kin  stan'  up  fer  both  o'  us,  if  they's  need  o'  it ; 

16 


226 


'n'  I'll  do  it,  too,  when  the  time   comes,  missus  or  no 
missus  !" 

He  no  longer  went  out  on  the  range  with  the  "boys," 
but  remained  about  the  ranch,  watching,  listening,  peer 
ing.  One  could  detect  a  spark  in  his  kind,  slow  eyes 
which  had  not  been  there  before.  He  followed  Phoebe 
Ellen  with  an  assiduity  which  she  misunderstood — it 
was  sad  and  funny  to  see  how  ready  she  was  to  misun 
derstand  if  the  prospect  of  her  happiness  brightened  there 
by—and  which  he  was  obliged  to  modify  for  very  shame. 
More  than  once  he  leaped  from  his  bed  at  night  with  a 
reflex  readiness  for  danger  as  some  unusual  sound  broke 
the  stillness,  and  stood  with  strained  nerves  listening  for 
something  to  confirm  his  nightmare  impression  that  the 
mistress  was  carrying  the  little  7un  away  by  main  force 
while  the  girl  was  calling  him  in  shrill  anguish  ;  but  al 
ways  he  could  see  from  his  window  by  the  cold,  glaring 
moon  that  it  was  only  the  horses  lurching  against  the 
corral  in  some  aimless  midnight  escapade,  or  the  dogs  re 
turning  from  an  onrush  at  some  fancied  enemy  approach 
ing  from  the  shadows  of  the  pines.  And  he  would  stand 
at  the  window  for  an  hour  or  more,  pondering  and  ponder 
ing,  till  his  thoughts  seemed  made  of  metal  and  clanked 
as  he  turned  them  over  and  over  in  his  mind.  And  when 
he  went  back  to  bed  he  carried  with  him  as  something 
threatening  an  impression  of  the  mountains  surging  dark 
ly  up  from  the  horizon,  and  of  countless  stars  falling  in  a 
luminous  drizzle  down  the  dizzy  precipice  of  the  sky. 
Pinky  had  been  in  earnest — there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  The  little  un  was  to  be  taken  away,  but  how  and 
when  Sam  could  only  surmise.  Perhaps  the  mistress 
herself  did  not  know,  but  Sam  was  sure  that  her  mind 
was  made  up  to  the  fact.  And  he  kept  his  eye  on 
Anny  as  if  afraid  she  might  be  snatched  away  bodily  in 
some  unguarded  moment  when  his  back  happened  to  be 
turned. 


227 


If  she  were  only  in  her  right  mind,  so  that  he  could 
talk  to  her  as  to  a  grown  woman  and  tell  her  of  his  love  ! 
She  loved  him — yes,  he  knew  that — as  a  child  loves  its 
big  brother,  nothing  more.  He  could  expect  nothing  else 
in  her  present  state — indeed,  anything  else  was  impossi 
ble.  But  if  she  were  to  get  well  ?  The  bare  idea  made 
him  catch  his  breath.  And  she  was  certainly  improving — 
slowly,  to  be  sure,  but  unmistakably  improving.  He  no 
ticed  the  change  day  by  day  with  a  sense  of  joyful  pos 
session  in  her  increased  power  of  speech  and  thought. 
Her  very  appearance  was  changing.  She  stepped  more 
firmly  and  regularly ;  she  stumbled  and  fell  less  often  ; 
her  will  was  more  apparent  in  the  use  of  her  hands,  her 
tongue ;  her  eye  was  brighter ;  her  very  outline  looked 
more  intelligent.  She  observed  and  reported  more  ac 
curately.  She  discriminated  with  a  finer  perception  of 
resemblance  and  contrast.  Her  voice  was  less  harsh  and 
strident,  and  expressed  finer  shades  of  feeling.  She  was 
even  learning  to  reason. 

"  If  she  was  to  git  well — " 

Sam  often  began  the  thought,  but  his  imagination  never 
completed  it  except  by  a  question-mark.  He  could  not 
be  so  sure  of  her  in  her  strength  as  in  her  helplessness. 
Now  she  needed  him,  but  of  what  use  could  he  be  to  her 
if  she  were  to  become  the  glorified  vision  of  his  first 
acquaintance  ?  Sam's  love  made  him  humble,  and  he 
could  think  of  the  possible  change  with  no  other  feeling 
than  doubt  mixed  with  faint,  pathetic  hopefulness.  She 
loved  him — if  not  as  a  woman,  at  least  as  a  child  ;  and  if 
she  were  to  get  well  he  might  lose  even  that,  and  he  saw 
himself  hovering  mutely  about  the  edge  of  her  horizon, 
venturing  only  on  an  occasional  look  of  awed  wonder. 
Still,  she  had  seemed  to  like  him  as  they  rode  home  from 
the  depot  on  that  never-to-be-forgotten  day  of  the  acci 
dent  ;  he  had  discovered  in  her  manner,  without  being 
able  to  formulate  it,  the  suffusive  eagerness  which  is  a 


228 


woman's  way  of  confessing  that  she  is  impressed  and 
wishes  to  give  an  impression.  Some  of  her  remarks  had 
been  too  shy  for  ordinary  conversation,  others  had  been 
too  bold.  She  had  smiled  a  good  deal,  sometimes  trem 
ulously,  often  with  the  effect  of  trying  to  appear  serious  ; 
and  her  eye  had  a  way  of  refusing  to  be  fixed  by  his — of 
slipping  beyond  it  to  some  remote  point  in  the  mountains, 
or  settling  upon  the  top  button  of  his  jacket,  all  of  which 
pleased  him  in  the  remembrance  and  which  he  thought 
he  understood.  But  if  he  had  been  mistaken  ?  Women 
are  so  incomprehensible  and  so — nice  ! 

' '  If  she  was  to  git  well,  would  she  marry  me  ?"  He 
always  finished  with  the  question.  If  not,  how  he  would 
miss  the  childish  trustfulness  of  the  clouded  intellect 
with  which  he  w^as  still  so  divinely  dissatisfied  !  And  if 
she  should  learn  to  care  for  him — well,  what  would  that 
be  like  ?  Heaven,  of  course  ;  what  else  ?  A  heaven  of 
insatiate  joys  which  Sam,  in  the  materialism  of  healthy 
manhood,  would  not  exchange  for  all  the  glorified,  winged, 
harp-playing  angels  of  the  Apocalypse. 

One  day,  while  he  was  brooding  over  these  things,  he 
had  an  inspiration. 

"  She's  so  much  better,  Vso  much  depends  on  whether 
she's  likely  to  keep  on  improvin',"  he  reflected,  e"t  I'll  jes' 
take  'er  over  to  Halstead's  V  see  wot  Doc  Sedgwick 
thinks  o'  her.  He  ain't  seen  'er  sence  she  reely  begun  to 
pick  up,  'n'  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  could  tell  if  it's  likely 
to  go  on.  If  'tain't,  I  orter  know  it,  'cause  then  I  won't 
build  no  hopes  on  'er ;  'n'  if  'tis,  I  want  to  know  it,  'cause 
then  I'll  keep  a-picterin'  o'  'er  as  Mrs.  Sam  Tinker.  'N' 
the  Doc's  so  sorter  weak  he  can't  come  over  'ere  'thout  a 
heap  o'  trouble  ;  he  fainted  dead  away  t'other  day,  Hal- 
stead  tole  me,  arter  a  little  climb  behind  the  barn.  'Sides, 
he'd  better  see  'er  when  the  missus  ain't  aroun'.  They 
ain't  no  tellin'  wot  she  might  do." 

Sam  scratched  his  ear  meditatively. 


229 


"But  how  to  git  7er  away  ?" 

At  first  lie  was  inclined  to  finesse,  and  he  thought  of  a 
dozen  pretexts  under  which  he  might  carry  oft'  the  girl  and 
attain  his  object ;  but  he  disliked  them.  It  was  his  nature 
to  be  es  open  and  above-board,"  as  the  saying  is,  and  any 
thing  short  of  that  left  him  dissatisfied  with  himself. 
But  at  last  an  interview  with  old  man  Halstead  gave  him 
a  chance  which  seemed  more  direct  and  natural,  though 
even  this  was  not  all  that  he  desired. 

"  Ole  Halstead  says  they's  one  o'  our  steers  got  in  among 
his'n,  7n'  if  I'll  go  over  to-morrer  he'll  help  me  cut  it 
out,"  he  said  one  afternoon,  when  he  and  Phoebe  Ellen 
were  together. 

She  looked  up  from  her  mending,  settling  it  with  a 
jerk  in  the  centre  of  her  lap. 

"  Want  breakfast  airly  ?"  she  inquired. 

' '  I  reckon  I'll  have  time  'nough  if  I  git  off  a  little  arter 
eight,"  he  answered.  "  Breakfast  won't  have  to  be  hur 
ried.  But  I  was  thinkin'  o'  suthin'  else." 

"Want  one  o7  the  boys  to  g'long  ?  Lengthy  Bill's  good 
at  that,  ain't  he  ?  Or  Skinny  Joe  ?  Or  Sufferin'  Peter  ?" 

"  Any  one  o'  7em  'ud  do.  But  they's  work  fer  all  o'  'em 
up  Corpse  Gulch,  'n'  I  reckon  I  kin  git  along  with  wot 
help  the  ole  man  kin  gimme.  Wot  I  wanted  was  to  hitch 
up  the  buckboard  V  give  the  little  un  a  day  off.  It  'ud 
do  'er  a  power  o'  good." 

"  Sis  ?"  Phoebe  Ellen  took  his  request  more  quietly 
than  he  had  expected — in  his  broodings  he  had  drama 
tized  her  as  refusing  flatly — but  he  noticed  a  droop  and  a 
twitch  at  the  corner  of  her  thin  mouth  which  he  had 
learned  to  regard  as  a  danger-signal.  She  readjusted  her 
mending,  tucking  it  in  so  that  no  smallest  edge  projected 
over  her  lap.  "  Wot  could  she  do  to  help  you  ?" 

"Nothin'  to  help  me,  's  I  knows  on." 

"  Oh  !  ye  wanted  'er  comp'ny  ?" 

"  Jesso  —  I  want  'er  comp'ny.     'Sides  that,  a  ride  'ud 


230 


do  'er  good — don't  ye  reckon  so  ? — V  the  weather  's  like 
summer." 

Phoebe  Ellen's  nostrils  expanded  slightly. 

"I've  allus  treated  'er  well — ye  know  it," she  declared. 
"  Ye  ain't  got  no  reason  to  try  to  git  'er  away  from 
me." 

"Git  'er  away  from  ye  —  no!  But  it  'ud  be  a  nice 
change  fer  'er,  V  she's  so  fond  o'  ridin'." 

"With  you — yes/' muttered  Phoebe  Ellen. 

Sam  heard,  but  took  no  notice. 

"  'Sides,"  he  went  on,  "  Mis'  Halstead  's  ast  me  time  'n' 
agin  to  fetch  'er  over  to  spen'  the  day.  It  'ud  do  'er  good 
to  git  out  'n'  stir  'roun'  more  'n  wot  she  does.  It  'ud 
brighten  'er  up  'n'  give  'er  idees." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  with  hard  examination. 

"  Anything  else  ?"  she  asked.  The  words  came  so  easily 
that  somehow  they  seemed  unnatural. 

Sam  met  her  look  placidly.  Something  told  him  that 
he  would  have  his  own  way  if  he  owned  up  to  the  sim 
ple  truth.  That  pleased  him  best,  and  he  resolved  to 
try  it. 

"  Lately  it's  been  comin'  over  me  stronger  'n'  stronger," 
he  said,  "'t  the  little  un's  gittin'  better  right  straight 
along."  He  paused  to  see  if  she  understood  the  full 
bearings  of  his  speech,  but 'detected  nothing  in  her  an 
swering  gaze  but  a  look  of  attention  which  had  been  fixed 
involuntarily.  "  Ye've  noticed  it  ?" 

Her  eyes  drooped  to  her  mending,  but  she  made  no 
attempt  to  resume  her  needle. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  facile,  subdued  voice. 
"I've  noticed  it  fer  some  time." 

Sam  took  up  the  word  more  eagerly. 

"I've  been  goin'  to  speak  to  ye  'bout  it,"  he  declared, 
leaning  towards  her  in  his  interest,  "  but  I  kep'  puttin'  it 
off.  'Sides,  I  didn't  know  but  wot  I  might  be  mistook. 
'N'  then—" 


231 


' '  Ye  didn't  know  how  I'd  take  it  ?"  There  was  some 
thing  dreadful  in  the  smooth  bitterness  of  the  words,,  but 
he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  notice. 

"  Now,  wot  I  was  thinkiii'  was  this."  He  brought  the 
index  finger  of  his  right  hand  to  the  thumb  of  his  left  as 
if  beginning  a  long  enumeration.  "I'd  like  Doc  Sedg- 
wick  to  see'  'er.  Fd  like  to  know  wot  he  thinks  o'  'er. 
He  can't  come  over  here — leastways,  the  ride  'ud  be  bad 
fer  'im.  So  wot's  the  matter  with  takin'  'er  over  there  ?" 
His  enumeration  stopped  suddenly,  and  he  sat  erect  with 
his  palms  spread  on  his  knees. 

Phoebe  Ellen  was  fumbling  with  her  work  again. 

"  I'd  rather  he  wouldn't  come  over,  anyhow,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  got  trouble  'nough  'thout  havin'  him 
aroun'. " 

"I  reckoned  so — I  'membered  yer  hatred  o'  him.  'N' 
the  little  un  could  stay  with  'im.  while  I  went  to  look  arter 
the  steer,  V  he  could  make  up  his  mind  'bout  'er.  If  she's 
goin'  to  git  well — " 

"  She  won't  git  well — she  can't  git  well !"  The  words 
seemed  choked  from  her  by  a  grasp  of  iron. 

Sam  went  on  with  undisturbed  equanimity. 

' '  That  may  be  so,  too ;  V  if  'tis,  we  want  to  know  it. 
We  want  to  know  it  either  way,  fer  it  means  a  heap  to  all 
o'  us.  It  does  to  me."  He  intended  the  emphasis  as  a 
confession  of  his  feelings — why  should  he  not  confess  ? — 
and  he  saw  that  she  so  understood  it. 

' '  It  means  a  heap  to  me,  too,"  she  supplemented,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  more  smothered  than  before. 

"  She  kin  go,  then  ?" 

For  a  moment  she  sat  relaxed  and  silent,  bending  for 
ward  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor.  Then  he  saw  that  the 
muscles  of  her  lean  figure  were  contracting,  stiffening, 
hardening  —  was  she  making  ready  for  a  spring  ?  The 
thin  gingham  dress  quivered,  loosely  sympathizing  with 
the  straining  flesh  and  spirit.  Then  she  flung  her  work 


232 


from  her  with  a  stiff  movement  of  both  hands  and  came 
to  her  feet  with  a  leap. 

"Yes,  take  'er  V  go!"  she  cried,  with  something  like 
a  shriek.  "  Take  'er — take  'er  V  go  !"  Her  voice  made 
a  sort  of  clangor  in  the  low  room  such  as  he  would  have 
believed  impossible  for  a  human  throat.  "  But  it's  the 
las'  time,  Sam  Tinker — d'  ye  hear  ?" 

And,  flinging  these  words  over  her  shoulder,  she  dashed 
from  the  room. 

Sam  remained  silent  for  a  little  space,  then  he  rose  with 
a  sober  smile. 

"  Yes,  HI  take  'er  'n'  go,"  he  said,  with  a  series  of  slow 
nods.  "But  the  las'  time  —  that's  a  big  word,  Miss 
Thompson,  V  we've  yit  to  see  'bout  that !" 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

"  WHEKE'S  the  little  tin  ?"  wondered  Sam,,  as  he  passed 
out  upon  the  veranda.  "How  happy  it  '11  make  'er  to 
be  told  we're  goin'  a-ridin'  together  to-morrer  !" 

He  found  her  at  the  corral,  where  she  stood  thrusting 
her  arm  between  the  upper  logs  and  scratching  the  nose 
of  a  sleepy -eyed  bronco  with  whom  she  had  long  ago 
made  friends.  She  looked  pretty  and  bright  and  inter 
ested.  "Almost  like  'erself/'  thought  Sam.  "I'd  like  to 
have  a  picter  o'  her  jes'  so  !" 

And  aloud  he  said  : 

"  Still  makin'  frien's  with  Scrubby  ?  I  tell  ye,  he  didn't 
look 's  meek  's  that  when  yer  brother  Dan  'n'  I  was  breakin' 
'im  two  year  ago  !  But  say  !  'ud  ye  like  to  go  a-ridin' 
with  me  to-morrer  ?" 

He  approached  and  leaned  against  the  corral  at  her 
side.  "In  the  blackboard/'  he  added.,  looking  down  ten 
derly  into  her  eyes. 

Anny's  face  lighted  up. 

"A-ridin'  ?    In  the  buckboard  ?    'LI  sis  let  me  ?" 

"Yer  sister  says  ye  kin  go." 

"  Ye  ast  'er  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Jest  us  two  ?"  She  had  withdrawn  her  arm  from 
between  the  logs  and  was  standing  erect  at  arm's-length 
from  Sam's  side. 

He  nodded. 

"Jest  us  two/'  he  repeated,  with  his  serious  smile. 

'"W  nobody  else  ?" 

"  Nobody  else — not  a  soul." 


234 


"  Not  even  sis  ?" 

"  No  one  but  us  two/'' 

"  She'll  stay  to  home— f er  shore  ?" 

"Fer  shore." 

She  made  an  awkward  little  dash  at  him  and  seized  his 
hand. 

"  How  glad  I  be  !"  she  cried.    "  How  glad — how  glad  !" 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  smoothed  it  softly. 

""We'll  have  a  day  to  'member  all  our  lives  !"  he  said, 
with  an  enthusiasm  almost  as  childish  as  her  own. 

They  started  earlier  next  morning  than  Sam  expected 
— earlier,  in  fact,  than  was  altogether  agreeable.  Phoebe 
Ellen  had  breakfast  for  them  at  daylight — it  was  a  good 
breakfast,  cooked  in  her  very  best  style — and  though  she 
was  somewhat  more  silent  than  usual,  there  was  nothing 
in  her  manner  directly  indicative  of  resentment  or  pique. 
She  saw  Anny  comfortably  seated  in  the  buggy,  tucked 
the  lap-robe  lightly  in,  and  gave  a  last  caution  to  the 
afflicted  girl  not  to  let  her  hat  blow  off. 

"If  it  does,  tell  Sam 'bout  it  the  fust  thing,"  continued 
the  voice  of  admonition.  "It  'ud  be  jes'  like  ye  to  ride 
'long  'n'  never  miss  it  fer  miles,  'n'  he'd  never  notice.  A 
man  never  does." 

Anny  was  silent,  evidently  impressing  the  lesson  of  care 
fulness  on  her  mind. 

"  I'll  keep  watch  o'  it,"  she  finally  said,  touching  the 
brim  with  heavy,  awkward  fingers.  With  all  her  improve 
ment  of  late,  she  was  by  no  means  normal  in  her  move 
ments.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  purty  hat.  ''N'  if  it 
blows  off,  I'll  holler." 

"  I'll  keep  a  eye  on  it,  too,"  promised  Sam.  And  with 
that  they  drove  away. 

"  She  took  it  well,  arter  all,"  said  he  to  himself,  think 
ing  of  Phoebe  Ellen  as  she  had  appeared  during  the 
morning. 

The  red  dawn  was  burning  dully  in  the  east,  and  the 


235 

shadows  lay  heavy  in  the  gulches — so  heavy  that  under 
the  pendent  cliffs  of  the  Hal  stead  road  the  night  seemed 
to  have  settled  permanently  in  a  black  liquid  which  over 
flowed  the  rocks  and  trees  and  left  nothing  certain  but 
an  outline  of  the  hills  and  a  patch  of  dull  sky.  The  pines 
looked  hardly  more  substantial  than  an  upgrowth  of  the 
desolate  shadows  ;  even  after  the  cold  gray  gleam  of  morn 
ing  gave  emphasis  and  purpose  to  the  landscape,  the  rocks 
had  a  spectral  effect  in  the  half-light,  and  the  underbrush 
looked  remote  and  vague.  Now  the  walls  of  the  cliffs 
closed  in  and  made  a  twilight  through  which  one  half 
expected  gray  phantoms  to  pass  and  disappear  ;  now  the 
sky  became  a  streak  as  cold  and  white  as  if  the  moon  were 
still  shining ;  now  it  broadened  as  the  hills  fell  apart,  and 
they  could  see  the  sunrise  above  stormy  pines,  and  the 
mountains  rising  silent  and  intent  as  if  waiting  for  an 
impression  of  the  dawn.  And  the  seething  color  in  the 
east  grew  redder  and  redder  ;  it  heaved,  bubbled,  broke 
into  fiery  spray  like  red-hot  lava  shot  from  Tartarean 
depths  ;  it  sent  a  pink  reflection  back  from  the  gray  west; 
it  dropped  upon  the  rocks  in  red  flakes  and  stuck  there. 
Pale  clouds  stirred  faintly  on  peaks  seen  momentarily  as 
a  transverse  gulch  gave  a  glimpse  of  the  high  horizon ; 
a  tremor  disturbed  the  gray  trance  of  the  mist  as  the 
rising  wind  passed  over  it.  At  best  the  luminous  change 
of  the  sky  was  visible  only  by  spells  ;  the  foot-hills  were 
always  thrusting  mighty  intrusive  shoulders  in  the  way. 
And  when  the  eastern  horizon  forced  its  broken  red  line 
upon  the  sight,  it  looked  unreal  and  strange,  like  the 
imaginings  of  a  half-mad  painter,  with  the  mountains 
beneath  it  plunging  down  into  abysses  of  aerial  gloom. 

At  last  the  red  upheaval  sent  a  reflected  gleam  into  the 
gulches,  and  a  luminous  tremor  passed  along  the  rocks. 
The  mists  turned  pink,  the  rocks  grew  into  a  garish 
prominence,  the  pines  looked  as  if  a  stage-light  had  been 
thrown  upon  them.  There  was  a  chromatic  climax,  dur- 


236 


ing  which  the  landscape  appeared  as  through  red  glass ; 
then  the  light  paled,  the  landscape  took  a  healthy  natural 
hue,  daylight  filled  the  blue  dome  of  the  sky,  and  a  sense 
of  satisfaction  came  over  the  world  after  the  breathless 
surprise  of  the  dawning.  The  beauty  and  mystery  of 
peak  and  gulch  were  fully  revealed.  The  white  range  in 
the  distance  rose  like  a  line  of  clouds  from  the  sea ;  the 
black  surge  of  pines  on  the  cliff  broke  towards  the  road 
with  a  liquid  roar,  then  sank  back  only  to  heave  forward 
again  with  a  sibilant  rush.  The  birds  awakened — not 
to  sing,  but  to  lend  the  excited  flutter  of  their  wings  to 
the  agitation  of  awakened  Nature.  A  rabbit  bobbed 
across  the  road  and  seated  himself  comfortably  on  his 
fluffy  white  tail  to  watch  the  wagon  pass.  Squirrels  chat 
tered  ;  there  was  a  crackling  of  distant  underbrush  as  if  a 
deer  were  making  a  cautious  flight  into  the  covert  of  cot- 
tonwoods. 

"It's  all  so  purty,"  said  Army,  nestling  close  to  Sam's 
side  and  tucking  her  hand  under  his  big  arm  as  a  child 
might  have  done.  "  I  like  it — I  like  it  !  Oh,  I'm  glad 
I'm  alive  !" 

Sam  smiled  down  at  her,  his  face  bright  with  sympathy. 

(( It's  good  to  be  alive  when  we're  happy,"  he  said. 

"I'm  happy  —  happy!"  chanted  Anny.  "I'm  allus 
happy  when  I'm  with  you  !" 

"  I'm  happy  too — jes'  's  happy  's  you  be.  The  only 
trouble  seems  to  be  't  we  can't  allus  keep  it  up." 

"  Can't  keep  up  bein'  happy  ?" 

"  YOU'TQ  happy  most  o'  the  time,  though.  That's  right. 
I  like  to  see  ye  happy,  no  matter  'bout  the  rest  o'  us." 

"I'm  allus  happy,"  she  repeated — "allus  happy  when 
I'm  with  you !" 

"  Then  ye'd  like  me  aroun'  all  the  time,  hey  ?" 

"  I  would  that !"  she  declared. 

"  Well,  I  been  aroun'  a  good  deal  lately,  'ain't  I  ?  More 
'n  I  used  to  be  ?" 


237 


"  More  'n  ye  used  to  be — yes.     But — " 

"But  wot?" 

"  But  not  ^nough — not  'nough  V 

"I'm  afeerd  ye're  greedy," said  Sam. 

"Greedy?" 

"  Yes  ;  greedy  o'  me !" 

"  Is  it  wicked  to  be  greedy  ?" 

"Wot  made  ye  think  o'  that  ?" 

"'Pears  like  I've  heerd  sis  say  how 'tis." 

"'Tain't  wicked  to  be  greedy  'bout  nice  things/' said 
Sam,  with  his  kindest  smile. 

"  Like  pie  V  cake  V  doughnuts  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  ain't  nice  !" 

"  Then  wot  is  nice  ?" 

"Why, /be!     See?" 

Anny  faced  him  soberly — she  was  still  very  slow  at 
grasping  a  joke — but  at  last  her  face  reflected  his  smile 
with  an  eager  jubilance. 

"  Oh  !     Then  'tain't  wicked  to  be  greedy  o'  you  9" 

Sam's  eyes  sparkled  his  enjoyment  of  her  quickness. 

"Ye  kin  be  jes'  's  greedy  o'  me  's  ye  like  !"  he  de 
clared. 

He  thought  she  was  going  to  attempt  some  retort,  but 
whatever  mental  effort  her  stammering  concealed,  it  final 
ly  settled  into  a  simple  but  appreciative  "  Oh  I" 

"'N'  ye'll  go  to  heaven,  too,"  said  Sam. 

"  Oh  !"  she  repeated,  in  the  same  tone.  Then  her  face 
brightened  still  more.  "  I'm  agoin'  to  be  greedy  right 
straight  along  now/'  she  declared. 

"Well,"  said'  Sam,  contentedly.  And  he  pressed  his 
huge  arm  against  the  hand  that  still  nestled  at  his  side. 

Presently  he  said  : 

"  Ye're  lookin'  's  bright 's  a  dollar  this  mornin',  little 
un.  Ain't  ye  feelin'  spryer  'n  usu'l  ?" 

"  I'm  happy,  happy,  happy  !"  she  answered. 

"Ye'll  have  a  nice  day  over  to  Halstead's.     The  ole 


238 


lady  's  been  wantin'  ye  to  visit  'er  ever  s'  long.     I  never 
see  'er  but  wot  she  speaks  to  me  'bout  it." 

"  That's  nice,  ain't  it  ?" 

"'LI  ye  be  lonesome  while  I'm  out  on  the  range  with 
the  ole  man  ?" 

"  To  ketch  that  steer  ?     No,  I  won't  be  lonesome." 

"Ye  know  the  Doc '11  be  there." 

Anny  nodded  reflectively. 

"I  like  the  Doc/'  she  said.  "He's  allus  good  to  me 
when  he  comes  over  to  the  ranch." 

"  Ye  ain't  afeerd  o'  him  ?" 

"  Afeerd  ?     Oh  no  !" 

"  Don't  he  skeer  ye  with  his  eyes  ?" 

Anny  laughed. 

"He  allus  looks  at  me  like  he  keerd  fer  me/'  she  an 
swered. 

"'N'ye'll  talk  to  'im  if  he  seems  to  feel  like  it  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.     I'll  talk  to  the  Doc.     I  allus  do." 

The  sun  was  well  up  when  they  reached  Halstead's,  and 
the  shadows  lay  black  and  tangled  under  the  cottonwoods 
all  about  the  old  ranch-house.  It  was  a  shady  spot  in  an 
opening  in  the  foot-hills,  and  beyond  it  the  mountains 
rose,  hung  with  vapors.  There  was  a  small  stream  close 
at  hand,  and  the  sun  made  a  troubled  lustre  on  the  clear 
water ;  mountains  and  trees  were  broken  in  the  hurry 
ing  current  as  it  slipped  among  the  stones  with  a  sound 
which  carried  with  it  a  sense  of  coolness  and  calm. 

They  were  met  at  the  gate  by  Mrs.  Halstead — a  hard- 
featured  old  woman  with  a  big  brown  mole  in  her  eyebrow 
and  loose  corrugations  of  colorless  flesh 'under  her  chin 
which  no  effort  of  retrospective  imagination  could  fill  with 
youthful  plumpness.  She  had  iron-gray  hair,  which  was 
combed  straight  behind  the  ears  from  an  uncompromising 
parting  and  fastened  in  a  hard,  glistening  gray  knob  at 
the  back  of  her  head,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  screwed 
in.  The  mountains  mould  grim  features  into  the  faces  of 


239 

their  human  companions,  but  the  harshness  of  Mrs.  Hal- 
stead's  nose  and  chin  was  corrected  by  her  eyes,  which 
were  gentle  and  thoughtful  and  loving. 

"  Well,  this  Cere's  a  sight  fer  sore  eyes  !"  was  her  greet 
ing.  "  "Light — 'light  'n  come  in."  In  the  eagerness  of 
her  hospitality  it  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  get  her 
visitors  quickly  enough  into  the  house.  "  Jes'  tie  the 
bronco  to  the  gate-post,  Sam  —  I'll  send  Hank  out  to 
look  arter  it.  Come  in — come  in  !  Fve  been  longin'  fer 
weeks  to  git  the  little  un  over  'ere  fer  a  day."  She  kissed 
Anny,  removed  her  hat,  smoothed  her  hair,  and  set  her  in 
the  wooden  rocker  by  the  window.  "I  declare,  I  been 
feelin'  like  a  biled  owl  all  mornin' — I  tole  Hank  afore  I 
got  up  I  knowed  I  was  goin'  to  put  in  a  blue  day,  V  hoped 
some  o'  the  neighbors 'ud  drop  in.  Well  I" — she  stood  off 
and  contemplated  her  visitors  with  folded  arms — "  this 
suits  me  half  to  death, /tell  ye  !  How's  all  the  folks  over 
on  the  Rio  Grande  ?" 

Sam  opened  his  mouth  to  reply,  but  before  he  could 
utter  a  word  Anny  spoke  up  brightly : 

"  Sis  's  well,  V  Leatherhead's  well,  V  Pinky's  well,  V 
everybody's  well  over  on  the  Eio  Grande  !" 

Mrs.  Halstead  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  then  laughed. 

"  The  little  un  's  wonderful  peart  this  mornin',  ain't 
she  ?"  she  asked.  She  took  the  girl's  hand  and  patted  it 
softly.  "  'Pears  like  I've  noticed  lately  how  she's  pickin' 
up.  I  says  to  Hank  t'other  day,  says  I,  f  She's  a-gittin' 
right  along/  says  I,  '  she's  a  -  gittin'  right  along !'  'N' 
shore  'nough,  now,  ain't  she  ?  I'll  leave  it  to  anybody, 
ain't  she  ?  Land  !  she'll  soon  be  ^erself  altogether  at  this 
rate  !" 

Anny  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  I  l)e  better,"  she  declared.     "  Ain't  I,  Sam  ?" 

"  I'm  shore  o'  it,"  was  his  answer. 

"I  Icnow  I  be,"  resumed  Anny,  with  more  confidence. 
"I  feel  it  'ere,"  she  touched  her  heart,  "  V  'ere,"  she  laid 


240 

her  hand  on  her  forehead.  "  Oh,  I  feel  it  all  over  !  'N' 
wot  if  I  was  to  git  well  ?" 

Sam's  face  shone  happily.  He  had  been  afraid  that 
the  excitement  of  the  visit  would  confuse  her,  or  that  the 
journey  would  weary  and  stupefy  her,  and  that  she  would 
be  unable  to  show  off  to  advantage  before  the  doctor ;  but 
instead  of  that  it  had  stimulated  her,  and  she  would  be 
seen  at  her  best. 

"  If  the  Doc  could  see  'er  at  this  minute,"  he  thought, 
"  I  know  he'd  say  they  was  hopes  fer  'er."  And  aloud  he 
asked  :  "  Where's  the  Doc,  anyhow  ?  I  come  over  partly  to 
see  'im — it's  a  errand.  'N'  arter  that  I  mus'  try  to  hunt  up 
that  steer.  Doc  feelin'  any  better  these  days  ?" 

"  No  better — -no.  Keeps  on  in  jest  about  the  same 
ole  way.  He's  out  in  the  hammick  up  bey  end  the  cor 
ral,  where  the  sun  's  warm  on  the  rocks.  Ye  know,  I 
reckon." 

Sam  nodded. 

"  I'll  leave  the  little  un  with  you,"  he  said,  and  strode 
away. 

He  found  the  doctor  in  the  place  indicated,  spread  out 
in  a  sort  of  ghastly  ease  with  the  sunshine  naming  full  in 
his  face  and  eyes.  His  half-closed  lids  were  dark,  as  if 
shaded  in  with  charcoal ;  his  cheek-bones  took  a  singular 
high-light  which  made  them  doubly  prominent.  He  had 
a  heavy  gray  shawl  wrapped  about  his  legs,  and  under  him 
was  a  woollen  afghan  of  mingled  cardinal  and  black,  its 
edges  showing  vividly  over  the  hammock.  The  cotton- 
woods  about  the  spot,  seared  by  autumn,  made  a  faded 
aureole  beyond  him,  and  there  was  a  certain  brightness  in 
the  very  shadows  they  flung  along  the  gray  soil.  Above 
him  a  foot-hill  heaved  its  solid  mass  of  rocky  drift,  broken 
by  black  pines  which  sang  dirges  in  the  wind  ;  and  still 
higher  up  the  precipitous  sky  lifted  its  breathless  curve 
of  blue.  Two  or  three  white  peaks  were  discernible  be 
tween  sky  and  foot-hill. 


241 


"Hello,  there!"  was  Sam's  greeting,  two  yards  away. 
"Well,  to  see  the  way  ye  be  a-soakin'  in  the  sun  I" 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  Dr.  Sedgwick,  flinging  up  his  arms 
as  if  he  were  falling.  The  shock  of  Sam's  voice  brought 
a  wild  light  into  his  eyes,  which  remained  for  a  moment 
in  a  steady  glare,  then  flickered  and  died  out.  Then,  re 
covering  from  his  start :  "Oh,  it's  you  I"  He  sank  back, 
panting.  "  Heavens  !  did  you  spring  straight  up  through 
the  ground  ?  Are  there  trap-doors  in  this  infernal  soil  ? 
Why  can't  you  come  up  to  a  man  like  a  Christian  ?  Oh, 
these  healthy  cattle,  who  don't  know  whether  they  have 
nerves  and  lungs  !  You've  scared  the  life  out  of  me  !" 

"I — I  fergot  how  sick  ye  was — I  swear  I  did,"  apolo 
gized  Sam.  Then,  with  a  rueful  glance  at  the  panting 
invalid;  "  Ye're  right,  I  be  a  brute.  I  orter  V  thort — it 
was  my  place." 

f(  Oh,  that's  easily  said,  and  more  easily  believed.  You 
needn't  be  scared — you  haven't  killed  me  yet.  You  can 
come  over  some  other  day  and  finish  up  the  job.  I  wish 
you  would — and  quickly,  too  !  Isn't  it  strange  that  a  man 
can't  die,  even  when  it's  plain  his  time  has  come  ?"  The 
momentary  excitement  died  out  of  his  face,  the  ghastli- 
ness  became  less  pronounced,  and  his  skin  resumed  its 
customary  flabby  lifelessness  of  hue.  "  To  go  on  breath 
ing  and  thinking  after  one  is  really  dead — to  eat  and 
sleep  and  move  about,  and  see  things  that  really  belong 
to  a  past  world — it's  a  horrible  life  to  live,  a  ghost's  life, 
I  tell  you  !  To  survive  one's  ambitions,  one's  friends, 
one's  contemporaries,  one's  very  passions  —  can  you  im 
agine  what  it  is  like  ?  If  I  could  only  cough  like  other 
consumptives,  it  would  help  to  finish  me  off.  No ;  you 
can't  imagine  what  it  is  like.  You  are  still  alive  !" 

Sam  said  nothing.  He  stood  with  one  arm  akimbo 
and  the  other  behind  him,  in  the  awkward  attitude  of 
pitying  attention. 

Suddenly  the  sick  man  broke  into  a  short,  bitter  laugh. 

16 


242 

"  You  came  over  to  hear  that,,  I  suppose.  "Well,  you've 
heard  it,  and  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?  Sit  down  ;  you 
make  me  nervous  standing  there  like  an  overgrown  school 
boy  that's  been  spanked."  Sam's  grin  was  immediately 
reflected  on  the  doctor's  pallid  features.  (i  That  rock 
there  at  the  foot  of  the  cottonwood — if  you'll  take  that  I 
won't  have  to  twist  my  neck  when  I  talk.  Are  there  any 
sharp  places  on  it  ?  No  matter — you  won't  feel  them. 
Sit  down." 

Sam  did  as  he  was  bidden,  still  grinning. 

The  doctor  punched  his  pillow  with  one  skeleton  fist, 
and  brought  his  thin  face  higher  into  the  sunlight.  His 
skull  hung  in  his  yellow  skin,  half  visible,  as  in  a  bag. 

" I  was  hopin'  to  find  ye  better,"  Sam  ventured.  "I'm 
sorry  ye  ain't.  I  hate  to  see  a  human  critter  suiferin'." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  force  you  to  do  what  you  hate.  But  it  '11 
do  you  good — you  great  animals  have  things  too  much 
your  own  way.  Well,  I  like  to  look  at  you,  nevertheless, 
and  think  how  I  would  feel  and  what  I  would  do  if  I  had 
your  muscles,  your  digestion,  your  nerves,  your  blood. 
It's  maddening,  of  course  ;  but  so  is  everything.  And 
you  are  at  least  a  change." 

Sam  glanced  about  him  at  the  sky,  the  mountains,  the 
trees,  the  interplay  of  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  a  sense  of 
sadness  crept  across  his  sympathy  with  the  healthy  joy  of 
material  things.  He  did  not  try  to  express  the  feeling,  but 
perhaps  there  was  a  sense  of  wistfulness  in  his  question. 

"Don't  the  brandy  brace  ye  up  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  brace  me  up,  yes.  It  keys  me  up  high — above 
concert-pitch,  I  tell  you.  But  afterwards— if  there  were 
no  afterwards,  I'd  keep  full  of  brandy  from  morning  to 
night.  But  what's  the  use  ?  It's  as  if—"  He  made  a 
gesture  descriptive  of  a  vain,  aimless  flight  from  misery, 
then  sunk  deeper  into  the  pillow.  "  Well,  what  of  it  ? 
There  is  plenty  of  good  material  in  the  world.  Is  there  a 
God  ?  He  can  afford  to  be  lavish  of  it !" 


243 


Sam  smoothed  his  knee  thoughtfully  with  one  big  brown 
hand. 

"  Tears  like  ye  ain't  reely  got  so  fur  away  from  yer  am 
bition  's  wot  ye  talk,"  he  remarked. 

"Oh,  are  you  getting  subtle  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"/should  say,"  continued  Sam,  "how  ye  was  jes'  try- 
in'  to  make  yerself  think  ye  don't  keer  fer  nothing  jes' 
'cause  it  makes  ye  onhappy  to  keer  fer  things.  'N'  /should 
say  ye  couldn't  quite  make  it  out." 

"  You  are  getting  subtle  !"  put  in  the  doctor. 

"  No  'fence,  o'  course,"  said  Sam,  in  apology. 

The  sick  man's  eyes  lit  up  with  a  momentary  smile. 

"  It's  the  last  thing  I'd  have  thought  of  you"  he  re 
marked. 

"Well,  let  it  go  fer  wotever  it's  wuth.  The  name  o' 
it  don't  cut  no  ice.  But  if  ye  was  to  git  a  chance  to  show 
off  yer  skill  on  a  good  subjeck,  now — a  fust-rate  subjeck 
Vud  do  ye  credit — well, /bet  yer  ambition 'ud  show  it 
self,  'n'  quick,  too." 

"You're  becoming  a  mind-reader  like  myself," he  said, 
half  bitterly. 

"No  ;  but  I've  brought  the  little  un  over  fer  ye  to  look 
at.  'N'  if  that  don't  int'rest  ye,  nothin'  will.  She's  to  be 
yer  patient  fer  to-day — see  ?  I  been  'tendin'  a  long  time 
to  have  ye  see  'er,  but  things  allus  come  up  to  interfere. 
'Pears  like  she's  a  heap  better — we  all  think  so  ;  V  I  want 
to  know  fer  shore.  Ud  ye  mind  talkin'  to  'er  a  spell  ?  I'm 
goin'  out  on  the  range  fer  a  steer." 

"You  seem  rather  interested  in  that  girl,"  the  doctor 
suggested,  after  a  moment. 

"  I'd  marry  'er  to-morrer,  if  she'd  have  me." 

«  And  if—" 

"And  if  she  was  in  'er  right  mind." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  doctor,  smiling  more  broadly  after  a 
little  pause.  "  Yes,  bring  her  out.  I'll  examine  her." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SAM  captured  his  steer,  corralled  it,  and  was  back  to 
the  ranch  at  one  o'clock.  He  found  the  doctor  propped 
up  among  heaps  of  chintz  cushions  in  an  easy-chair  on  the 
veranda. 

"Well?"  he  inquired,  anxiously,  on  coming  face  to  face 
with  the  man  of  science. 

The  doctor  looked  worn  and  broken,  but  his  face  told 
a  story  of  discovery.  There  was  an  idea  in  his  look, 
his  gestures,  his  attitude.  Something  had  transformed 
him.  He  looked  like  a  disembodied  spirit  with  eyes  of 
flame. 

<f  I've  examined  her,"  he  said,  trying  unsuccessfully  to 
keep  his  lips  from  quivering. 

"Well  ?"  repeated  Sam. 

The  doctor  seemed  to  readjust  himself  inwardly. 

"  I've  had  a  long  talk  with  her — a  long  talk." 

Again  came  Sam's  anxiously  patient  query,  "Well  ?" 

"She's  better,"  the  doctor  said. 

Sam  fetched  an  exhalation  like  a  puff  from  an  escape- 
pipe. 

"  I  knowed  it  I"  he  cried.  And  then,  with  an  eager  lurch 
in  the  doctor's  direction,  "She'll  git  well !" 

The  doctor's  voice  trembled  as  he  took  up  the  word  in 
his  own  way* 

"  Very  much  better.  Better  by  far  than  I  ever  hoped 
she  would  be.  But — " 

Sam  steadied  himself  against  a  veranda  post,  breathing 
hard. 

"  They's  a  but  in  the  case,  then  ?"  he  asked. 


245 


The  doctor  settled  into  the  chair  on  the  small  of  his 
back. 

"  A  but  9  A  very  big  but,  I  can  tell  you  !  The  biggest 
kind  of  a  but.  In  a  word — " 

"  She  can't  git  well  ?"  cut  in  Sam,  breathlessly. 

"You've  said  it — she  can't  get  well.  She  may  improve 
still  further — it's  likely  she  will ;  she  may  learn  to  per 
ceive  more  accurately,  to  memorize  tolerably  well,  to  rea 
son  a  very  little  ;  she  may  become  so  nearly  herself  that  a 
stranger  would  see  nothing  peculiar  about  her.  She  may 
do  all  this — I  hope  and  believe  she  will ;  but  she  can't  get 
well !  I  examined  her  carefully — not  by  question  only, 
but  by  actual  manipulation  of  the  injured  spot.  It  used 
me  up,  and  I've  been  taking  brandy  ever  since — do  you 
smell  my  breath  ?  You  could  skate  on  it  ! — but  what 
matter  ?  The  injury  is  of  such  a  nature  that  she  can 
never  fully  recover  from  its  effects." 

Sam  pushed  himself  away  from  the  post,  turning  so 
that  the  doctor  could  not  see  his  face. 

"Well,  there's  another  hope  gone  a-glimmerin',"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  which  failed  to  conceal  his  real  depth  of 
feeling. 

The  doctor  smoothed  his  cheek  with  a  jerky  hand,  and 
ended  by  pinching  the  withered  skin  on  his  jaw  in  an  ex 
cited  way. 

"  I  discovered  something  else,"  he  said,  in  an  altered 
voice. 

Sam  turned  quickly. 

"  Suthin'  else  ?" 

' '  I  believe  I  have  discovered  something  else,"  amended 
the  doctor. 

"  Wot  kin  it  be  ?  Anything  in  'er  favior  ?  Lord  !  I 
do  b'lieve  it's  suthin'  in  'er  favior  !"  Sam's  face  had 
lighted  up. 

"  Yes,  in  her  favor.  But  I  can't  tell  you  now — you  have 
a  right  to  hope — yes,  and  I  have  a  right  to  tell  you  that 


246 


yon  may.  Only,  I  want  time  to  think — I  must  have  time 
to  think.  Wait — wait !  Don't  you  see  I'm  all  upset,  in 
spite  of  the  brandy  ?  Great  God!  What  if  I  should  be 
the  means  of  restoring  that  poor  girl  completely  to  her 
reason  ?  "Well,  who  would  say  then  that  Sedgwick  the 
consumptive  had  lived  for  nothing — studied  medicine  for 
nothing  ?  Eestore  her  ?  That  would  be  a  feat  which  you 
with  all  your  brute  strength  could  never  perform.  Listen  ! 
But  no  ;  I  swore  I'd  take  two  days  to  think  it  over,  and  I 
will.  I  want  to  be  calm,  careful,  judicious.  I  must  take 
time.  Come  over  day  after  to-morrow  and  I'll  give  you 
my  conclusion.  Not  before— no  !  Do  you  want  to  kill 
me  by  forcing  me  to  speak  before  Fm  ready  ?  How  would 
that  .benefit  her  ?  They've  called  you  twice  to  dinner. 
Day  after  to-morrow,  and  till  then  say  nothing  to  any 
body.  No,  I  sha'n't  eat  anything.  There's  Mrs.  Hal- 
stead  again — go !" 

Sam  went  in,  but  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  no 
appetite.  He  ate,  not  because  he  cared  for  what  was  set 
before  him — he  was  really  unable  to  distinguish  one  dish 
from  another — but  for  fear  his  hosts  and  Anny  would  no 
tice  and  make  comment  if  he  abstained.  The  chicken 
stew,  which  good  Mrs.  Haldstead  had  so  carefully  pre 
pared  for  the  occasion,  might  have  been  corned  beef  for 
all  he  knew.  Even  the  hot  waffles  for  dessert  went  down 
without  a  titillation,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  meal  was 
over  and  he  was  at  liberty  to  wander  out  into  the  open 
air. 

He  hunted  for  the  doctor,  but  that  mysterious  indi 
vidual  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

"  I  won't  go  home  'thout  seein'  'im,"  he  muttered,  un 
der  his  breath.  "He's  got  to  tell  me  wot  struck  'im  so 
hard.  I  can't  live  till  day  arter  to-morrer  on  a  crumb 
like  that." 

But  the  doctor  had  gone  to  bed  ill  and  could  see  no 
one. 


247 

"  Tell  him  to  go  home  and  behave  himself,"  was  the 
harsh  message  old  Mrs.  Halstead  brought  back. 

"  Damn  it !"  muttered  Sam,  and  turned  away. 

But  swearing  was  of  no  use,  and  like  a  wise  man  Sam 
abstained  after  that  first  outbreak. 

"  Day  arter  to-morrer  it  is  then,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  went  to  tell  Anny  it  was  time  to  start  for  home. 

He  had  not  expected  to  leave  so  early,  but  he  managed 
to  find  an  excuse — ranch-life  is  a  fertile  source  of  prevar 
ication  ;  and  at  last,  to  his  infinite  relief,  he  found  him 
self  seated  in  the  buckboard  with  Anny  at  his  side  and 
the  reins  in  his  hands.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halstead  were  at 
the  gate  shrieking  good-byes  interlarded  with  wild  invita 
tions  to  come  again. 

"  Fll  send  one  o'  the  boys  over  fer  the  steer  to-morrer," 
were  Sam's  parting  words.  "  Or  if  not,  Til  be  over  my 
self  the  day  arter." 

"  The  corral  b'longs  to  'im  's  long  's  he  needs  it,"  was 
the  old  man's  hospitable  response.  ' '  He's  welcome — 
welcome  's  the  flowers  in  May.  'W  be  shore  'n'  bring  the 
little  un  agin.  'N'  tell  the  missus  we're  longin'  fer  a 
sight  o'  her  smilin'  face.  We're  powerful  stuck  on  the 
little  un,  wife  'n'  me." 

"  I'll  come,"  spoke  up  Anny,  on  her  own  account. 
"  I've  had  sech  a  good  time.  'N'  the  chicken  stew  was 
lovely !" 

Sam  backed  the  buckboard  into  the  road,  and  a  mo 
ment  later  his  horse's  nose  was  turned  homeward. 

"  Ye've  reely  had  a  good  time  ?"  asked  Sam,  looking 
down  at  his  companion. 

The  excitement  of  parting  was  dying  out  of  Anny's  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  listlessly. 

"  But  it  tired  ye,  hey  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Ye  had  a  talk  with  the  doctor  ?" 

"  Yes." 


248 


"  A  long  un  ?" 

"  Not  too  long." 

"  Wot  'd  he  say  ?" 

Anny  considered. 

"  Oh,  lots  o'  things,"  she  finally  said. 

"  Fer  instance  ?" 

She  brushed  her  hair  wearily  back  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  can't  think." 

Sam  was  touched  by  the  words  and  the  look  which  ac 
companied  them — it  was  so  plain  that  she  was  tired  out — 
but  his  anxiety  was  greater  than  his  compassion. 

"  0'  nothin'  ?     Can't  ye  think  o'  nothin'  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No." 

"  Try — try,"  he  urged. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  presently  clasped  her  fingers  to 
her  temples.  Then  she  lowered  her  right  hand  and 
clasped  it  around  his  big  arm.  Presently  she  looked  up 
wistfully. 

"  There  was  suthin' — "  she  began,  with  a  tentative, 
helpless  look. 

te  Yes,  yes  !"  he  cried,  eagerly. 

"I  didn't  know  jes'  wot  it  meant — " 

"Yes,  yes  !" 

f '  I  couldn't  think  it  out,  but  'peared  like  I  orter  know — " 

' '  Try — try  to  'member — " 

"  So  I  said  to  myself,  '  I'll  'member  that  V  ast  Sam.' " 

"  But  wot  he  said — can't  ye  bring  it  back  ?" 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"It's  gone,  V  I  can't  bring  it  back  !"  she  finally  sighed, 
drooping  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder. 

Sam's  face  expressed  his  disappointment,  and  he  did 
not  notice  that  she  had  turned  a  little  and  was  looking  up 
at  him. 

"  Ye  won't  scold  me  ?"  she  pleaded.  "  No — no  !  Don't 
scold  me  !  I'll  try  to  think  !" 


249 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  reassuringly. 

"It  don't  matter/'  he  said,  gently.  "Don't  worry.  / 
don't  mind." 

' ( 'N'  ye  like  me  jes'  the  same  's  ever  ?" 

"  Jes'  the  same." 

There  was  another  wistful  silence. 

"  Ye'd  like  me  better,  though,  if  I  could  think  wot  he 
said  ?" 

"I'd  like  orfly  to  know.  But  don't  worry.  It's  all 
right !" 

She  lowered  her  gaze  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder  in  the  childish  way  with  which  he  was  familiar. 

"  Keep  very  still,"  she  said.  "  Ever  V  ever  so  still.  It 
almos'  comes  back.  I  want  ye  to  like  me.  I'll  try  to 
bring  it  back." 

They  rode  on  in  silence.  Sam  noticed  nothing  of  the 
landscape  through  which  they  passed  ;  his  thoughts  were 
intent  on  the  doctor  and  his  idea.  What  was  it  ?  What 
did  it  all  mean  ?  Was  there  really  something  to  hope 
for  ?  Or  was  it  only  a  hallucination — one  of  a  consump 
tive's  many  distempered  dreams  ?  The  sun  wandered 
farther  and  farther  down  the  sky  ;  the  mists  condensed 
into  white,  woolly  rolls  above  the  woods  ;  the  rocks  and 
trees  seemed  to  engage  in  mute  conference  with  their 
shadows.  Pines  hung  on  the  horizon  like  storm  clouds  ; 
close  at  hand  they  looked  human,  tossing  their  arms  in 
impatience  of  their  uninterpreted  grief.  Finally  their 
moaning  grew  into  the  silence  till  the  mind  failed  to  dis 
tinguish  between  the  two,  and  called  it  only  silence. 

At  last  Anny  spoke  without  moving.  Her  voice  was  so 
low  that  when  she  began  Sam  mistook  it  for  a  softer  mur 
mur  from  the  pines. 

"  I  kin  tell  ye  now.  The  pines  helped  me  to  'member 
it.  'W  I'm  so  glad  !"  She  heaved  a  long  sigh. 

Sam  bent  his  head  sidewise  towards  her  so  as  not  to  lose 
a  word. 


250 


"  I'm  listen!  n',"  he  said. 

"He  was  lookin'  at  me  with  all  his  eyes  —  ye  know 
how  ? — till  I  had  to  shet  mine,,  like.,  to  keep  'im  out.  It 
was  like  suthin'  was  borin'  into  my  head.  It  skeerd  me. 
Ye  know  wot  I  mean  ?" 

"  I  know — I  know  V 

"  'N'  all  to  wunst  he  says,  like  he  was  talkin'  to  himself, 
'  If  I  ever  find  it  out  by  mind-readin','  "  says  he,  'I'll  have 
to  git  it  from  'er  sister/  'W  then  he  stopped  lookin'  at 
me,  V  went  to  talkin'  'bout  the  birds  V  squirrels.  'W 
that's  all — only  I'm  glad  I  'membered." 

Sam  could  make  nothing  of  the  speech,  and  his  coun 
tenance  expressed  as  much.  But  Anny  failed  to  see  his 
disappointment ;  she  was  very  tired,  and  would  not  have 
understood  had  she  noticed  his  perplexed  look. 

"Fm  glad,  too,"  he  said,  gently.  He  was  not  unmind 
ful  of  the  effort  she  had  made  to  please  him. 

She  nestled  closer,  like  a  contented  child. 

"Ye  like  me  now  ?" 

"Ever  so  much." 

His  glance  met  hers,  straight  as  a  sunbeam.  How  pretty 
she  looked  with  the  flush  of  weariness  in  her  cheeks  and 
the  light  of  affection  in  her  eyes !  For  a  moment  he 
forgot  what  she  was — an  afflicted  creature  whose  recovery 
was  at  best  problematical — and  remembered  only  that  he 
loved  her.  He  had  been  silent  so  long — surely  she  would 
understand  !  But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  weigh  chances  ; 
the  desire  to  tell  her  of  his  love  overflowed  and  bore  away 
all  other  feelings  like  a  sudden  tide. 

"  Don't  look  away  !"  he  cried,  suddenly,  as  she  was  about 
to  turn  her  head.  "  Look  up  at  me — look  up  at  me  allus 
like  that !" 

She  turned  her  face  obediently  to  his  without  lifting 
her  head  from  his  shoulder. 

"  Like  ye  ?    I  love  ye  !"  he  said,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"Ye  hurt  me,"  she  murmured.     And  he  woke  to  the 


251 

consciousness  that  he  was  crushing  her  against  his  breast 
with  all  his  strength. 

"  I  love  ye — Fd  die  fer  ye  !"  he  whispered. 

She  looked  at  him,  as  he  could  easily  see,  without  un 
derstanding  the  difference  between  like  and  love. 

" Fm  glad/'  she  said,  simply.     "Hike  ye, Hove  ye,  too  !" 

Her  direct,  innocent  gaze  gave  him  a  pang.  A  sudden 
shame  overcame  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  confessed  a 
man's  passion  for  a  child. 

"  I  do  love  ye,  little  un,"  he  repeated,  in  a  different 
tone. 

And  in  this  mood  he  bent  and  kissed  her  softly  on  the 
forehead. 

"Go  to  sleep,"  he  said,  as  if  she  were  his  little  sister, 
helpless  and  tired.  He  adjusted  his  huge  left  arm  about 
her,  and  supported  her  so  that  the  movement  of  the  wag 
on  would  disturb  her  less.  "  Ye're  worn  out  altogether. 
Go  to  sleep  !"  And  there  was  a  suspicious  moisture  in 
his  eyes  as  he  turned  to  his  horse. 

And  thus  they  rode  on  through  the  gulches  while  the 
sun  sank  lower  and  lower  to  the  cliffs,  and  the  mists, 
which  had  settled  like  a  white  sediment  upon  the  black 
solid  of  the  pines,  turned  roseate,  and  the  early  sunset  got 
tangled  in  the  trees  and  made  a  hazy,  sprawling  glory  of 
the  shadows.  And  Sam  thought: 

"If  she  was  to  git  well — the  Doc  said  she  couldn't,  but 
he  said  they  was  hope,  too  —  she  couldn't  go  to  sleep 
leanin'  agin  me  like  this !  Why,  it's  like  she  was  a  little 
baby  V  trusted  me  completely,  knowin'  I'd  never  let  'er 
come  to  harm.  How  stiddy  V  reg'lar  she  breathes,  pore 
little  tired  thing  !" 

On  through  the  thickening  shadows,  while  the  spirit  of 
the  wind  passed  in  among  the  mists  and  scattered  them 
in  red  fragments  along  the  rocks.  Sam  noticed  nothing 
of  the  rustling  cottonwoods  or  the  moaning  pines.  His 
mind  was  busy  with  the  future. 


252 


"  I'll  be  on  hand  day  arter  to-morrer  to  see  wot  sort  o' 
magget  that  man  's  got  in  his  head,"  he  thought.  "  He 
wouldn't  V  talked  that  way  fer  nothinV" 

When  they  reached  the  home  valley  Sam  awakened  his 
companion  by  drawing  her  away  from  him  and  placing 
her  erect  in  her  seat. 

"  Wake  up  !"  he  cried,  when  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
open.  ' '  We're  home  agin  I" 

Anny  yawned. 

"Fm  glad  ye  like  me,"  she  said,  taking  up  her  thought 
where  she  had  left  it  off  on  going  to  sleep. 

"Yes,  but  ye  musVt  let  the  missus  hear  ye  talk  'bout 
it,"  cautioned  Sam. 

"No,"  acquiesced  Anny,  now  fully  awake. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Two  days  later  Sam  started  immediately  after  breakfast 
for  Halstead's.  He  gave  no  intimation  of  the  real  object 
of  his  journey  to  any  one,  merely  saying  to  Phoebe  Ellen 
that  he  was  going  to  drive  home  the  steer  which  he  had 
corralled  on  his  former  visit. 

He  found  the  doctor  in  his  room,  stretched  full  length 
upon  the  bed. 

"I  expected  you, "  was  the  invalid's  greeting.  "No, 
I'm  no  worse — Fm  merely  trying  to  keep  still.  I  don't 
succeed  very  well — no.  Somehow,  even  when  my  mind  is 
quiet — which  is  rare — my  body  keeps  on  going.  That  is 
horrible — the  strain  one  feels  when  his  mind  and  body  are 
at  odds.  I'm  glad  you  came  early.  I  have  better  control 
of  myself  in  the  morning.  Don't  I  seem  rather  more  rest 
ful  than  usual  ?  I've  been  saving  up  for  your  visit — you 
remember  how  you  surprised  me  the  last  time  ? — and  I'd 
like  to  think  my  preparations  are  discoverable  in  some 
sort  of  result.  I've  been  thinking — you  know  I  told  you 
I  would — and  I  feel  sure  of  myself.  I  didn't  when  I  saw 
you  last.  I  had  got  an  idea — they've  been  so  scarce  since 
I  came  to  Colorado  ! — and  it  upset  me  horribly.  Yes,  I 
can  cure  that  girl — I  fully  believe  I  can.  I'd  like  to  try  ; 
the  thought  of  it  has  been  tingling  in  me  ever  since  it  got 
into  my  mind — it's  a  sort  of  poison  in  my  blood.  Think 
of  it — if  I  could  cure  her  !  I — I  !  You  don't  seem  to 
know  what  that  means.  To  you  I  suppose  it  would  mean 
the  same  as  if  another  man  cured  her,  but  to  me  !  Why 
do  I  set  so  much  store  by  it  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
Call  it  a  freak — a  sick  man's  whim.  But  I  want  to  do  it. 


254 


I've  never  had  a  chance  really  to  do  anything  in  my  pro 
fession — I  lost  my  health  just  as  I  had  finished  my  course 
in  the  hospital ;  but  I  know  I  had  ability — others  thought 
so  as  well  as  myself.  I  have  ability  still  if  my  health 
would  let  me  exert  it.  Cure  her  ?  I  tell  you  I  can.  Or 
if  not—" 

"  "Well,  wot  then  ?"  asked  Sam,  as  his  companion  hesi 
tated.  "  If  ye  didn't  cure  'er— " 

"She  might  die." 

Sam  felt  himself  stiffening,  then  as  suddenly  relaxing. 

"  If  I  didn't  cure  her,  I  might  kill  her,"  stated  the  doc 
tor,  explicitly. 

Sam's  eyes  asked  for  another  statement  more  definite. 

"I  believe,  though,  there  would  be  no  intermediate 
ground,"  said  the  doctor,  in  answer  to  that  look.  "  It  would 
be  either  one  thing  or  the  other.  I  don't  mean  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  her  to  go  on  as  she  is  ;  she  might 
do  it — with  another  physician.  But  not  with  me.  I  know 
it.  You  see  I  speak  plainly." 

"  Oh  !"  was  Sam's  only  comment. 

The  doctor  eyed  him  curiously. 

"You  don't  seem  to  take  to  the  idea,"  he  remarked, 
cracking  his  skeleton  fingers. 

Sam  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  wandered  thought 
fully  out  to  the  foot-hills  and  the  vacant  sky.  Finally  he 
bent  his  glance  once  more  upon  the  doctor  and  inquired  : 

"Wot  sort  o'  med'cine'ud  ye  have  to  give  'er,  anyhow, 
if  ye  was  to  try  this  scheme  ?  Pizen  ?" 

"Medicine  ?     I  should  give  her  110  medicine  at  all." 

Sam's  glance  became  more  alert. 

"  Wot,  then  ?" 

"She  would  have  to  undergo  an  operation." 

"  A  operation  ?"  The  word  had  a  loose  signification 
in  Sam's  vocabulary,  and  he  could  not  have  defined  it  to 
save  his  life.  In  general  he  connected  it  with  crude  am 
putations  of  arms,  legs,  or  frozen  ears. 


255 


The  doctor  understood  his  perplexity,  and  though  his 
eyes  burned  more  darkly  than  usual,  he  smiled. 

ce  No,  I  shaVt  cut  her  head  off/'  he  said.  "  They  cut 
off  hands  and  feet  to  perform  cures,  but  never  heads.  I'll 
vouch  for  the  girl's  head." 

Sam  did  not  notice  the  sarcasm. 

"  But — 'er  brains,  doctor  ?"  he  asked.  "  Wot  about  'er 
brains  ?" 

"And  I  sha'n't  scrape  her  brains  out,"  grinned  the 
strange  man.  "An  operation  isn't  always  so  radical  as 
that." 

"Then  wo* 'ud  ye  do?" 

"Let  me  tell  you.     You  see — " 

"Tell  me  in  the  littlest  words  ye  kin  think  of,"  stip 
ulated  Sam. 

"  I'll  do  it  so  that  a  child  could  understand.  The  sim 
ple  fact  is  that  the  girl's  skull  was  fractured  in  the  acci 
dent  on  the  landslide — " 

"I  allus  made  shore  o'  that,"  put  in  Sam. 

"And  a  piece  of  bone  is  pressing  upon  the  brain.  You 
understand  ?" 

Sam  nodded. 

"  Now,  have  you  ever  seen  a  set  of  surgical  instru 
ments  ?" 

"  Knives  V  saws  V  sech  ?" 

"Yes — and  other  things." 

"I've  seen  'em,"  said  Sam. 

"  Well,  there  are  special  instruments  for  such  cases  as 
tlvs  girl's.  A  skilful  surgeon  can  cut  through  the  scalp, 
lay  open  the  flesh,  reach  down  into  the  fracture,  lift  the 
displaced  bone  carefully  up — " 

Sam's  eyes  were  wide  with  interest. 

"Yes — yes  !     'N'  they  kin  keep  it  there  ?" 

"Yes,  they  can  keep  it  there.  I've  seen  it  done — as 
sisted  in  the  operation — " 

"  But  never  reely  done  it  ?" 


256 

"  No.     But  I  know  just  how." 

"'N'  the  patient  gits  well  ?" 

"Exactly.     The  patient  gets  well." 

Sam  pondered  a  moment. 

"  But  if  the  surgeon  lacked  skill — " 

The  doctor  shut  him  off  peremptorily. 

"Then  he  oughtn't  to  undertake  the  operation." 

His  perfect  frankness  pleased  Sam,  and  he  went  on  : 

"But  if  he  was  mistook  in  hisself  ?" 

"The  friends  ought  to  make  sure  of  that,  and  then 
decline  to  let  him  operate." 

"Fm  a  friend  o'  this  patient,"  remarked  Sam. 

"So  am  I." 

"I  want  the  thing  done  that's  best  fer  'er." 

"So  do  I." 

Sam  shook  his  head  and  sighed. 

"Ye  don't  feel  fer  'er  like  wot  I  do,"  he  declared. 
"  Cut  into  'er  scalp  V  go  to  proddin'  aroun'  amongst  'er 
skull  ?  Ye  never  could  do  it  if  ye  keerd  fer  'er  like  / 
do." 

"I  didn't  mean  that.  You  are  doubtless  the  best  friend 
she  has  in  the  world." 

'"W  the  missus— she's  'er  friend  too/'  said  Sam.  The 
words  came  half  tentatively,  half  defiantly. 

"Um-m,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  She  wouldn't  never  cornsent  to  it." 

"Why  hot?" 

"Sev'ral  reasons.  Fust  V  foremost,  she  hates  the 
sight  o'  you.  She  wouldn't  let  ye  tech  the  gal." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  that.     I  know  more  about  the  cause 
of  her  hatred,  too,  than  you  suppose.     But  that's  alto 
gether  beside  the  question.     Would  she  be  glad  to  have 
her  sister  recover  ?" 
Sam  flushed. 

"I  ain't  ast  'er,"  he  answered. 
"Ask  her  and  see." 


257 

' '  Ye're  shore  she  wouldn't  ?" 

"Aren't  you?" 

Sam  gave  an  evasive  shrug. 

"  She  would  never  consent/'  the  doctor  went  on,  "but 
not  because  she  hates  me.  /  know  her  reasons  :  so  do 
you." 

"We  might  's  well  onderstan'  each  other/'  said  Sam. 
"Let's  see  if  yer  idees  tally  with  mine." 

"  She  would  never  consent,  because  she  loves  you,  Sam 
Tinker — that's  why.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  blind  ?  You 
forget  that  I  am  blessed  —  or  cursed  —  with  a  double 
vision — " 

' '  Ye're  the  devil !"  said  Sam. 

"  Thanks  !  We'll  discuss  that  later.  I  realize  that  the 
missus  won't  consent  —  and  I  know  other  reasons  than 
either  of  us  has  mentioned  ;  but  they  will  keep.  Some 
day,  if  you  need  them,  you  shall  have  them.  Now,  the 
question  is,  should  the  girl's  fate  be  decided  by  one  whose 
judgment  is  as  biassed  as  that  of  your  mistress  ?  If  so, 
the  girl  will  have  to  stay  as  she  is,  for  all  I  can  see.  It 
doesn't  seem  fair,  though." 

"No,  it  don't,"  admitted  Sam. 

1 '  Put  yourself  in  the  girl's  place  a  moment,  can  you  ?" 

"It  'pends  on  wot  ye  want  me  to  do." 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  die  in  an  operation  than  live  on 
with  her  prospects  before  you  ?" 

"  She  ain't  so  bad,"  evaded  Sam.  "  She's  gittin'  bet 
ter." 

"But  the  question  —  wouldn't  you,  now?  Answer 
truly." 

Sam  faced  the  situation  as  best  he  could. 

"  Oh,  I?     Yes,  I  would.     But  her— to  her— " 

"Hasn't  she  the  same  rights  as  you  ?  Does  she  forfeit 
her  rights  because  she  isn't  able  to  judge  for  herself  ? 
And  because  you  have  to  decide  for  her,  are  you  not,  in 
fact,  a  coward  to  assume  that  she  is  different  ?" 

17 


258 

The  doctor  had  braced  himself  on  one  elbow,  and  was 
facing  the  cowboy  with  burning  eyes.  Sam  afterwards 
remembered  those  eyes  in  dreams. 

"  The  missus  is  the  one  to  decide/'  he  still  evaded. 

"She  is  not  the  one  to  decide.  She  is  prejudiced. 
You  yourself  admitted  the  fact." 

"We  couldn't  do  it  if  she  didn't  cornsent,  though/'  ob 
jected  Sam. 

The  doctor  nodded  slowly. 

"  You  have  the  power  to  persuade  her/'  he  said. 

"Ye  talk  like  ye  made  shore  I  was  in  fer  the  bizness." 

"lam." 

"But  if  I  tell  ye  I  ain't?" 

(( You  will  be  when  you  think  it  over." 

<e'W  if  I  was  to  say  I  don't  b'lieve  ye're  onto  the 
job  ?" 

"Not  equal  to  it,  you  mean  ?" 

"Jesso." 

The  doctor  bit  his  thin  lip  and  settled  back. 

"  Then  the  affair  would  have  to  end  just  as  it  is,"  he 
said,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"The  missus  '11  tell  ye  that  when  ye  come  to  ast  'er," 
said  Sam. 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  ask  her.  You  are  to  do  that. 
You  will  do  it — if  I  give  you  time." 

"'N'  if  ye  was  to  be  nervous  V  jab  yer  tools  a  leetle 
too  fur  into  the  little  un's  head — " 

The  doctor  finished  the  sentence  calmly. 

"She  would  die." 

He  twisted  himself  into  a  position  from  which  he  could 
look  more  directly  into  Sarn's  face. 

"On  the  other  hand,  if  the  case  were  managed  right 
she  would  get  well.  Have  you  thought  what  that  really 
means  ?" 

"I  ain't  thort  o'  nothin'  else,  lately.  It  might  mean 
sev'ral  things." 


259 


"  For  instance?" 

"  That  she  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  me,"  was 
the  gloomy  answer. 

"  Nonsense  !  She'd  marry  you  the  next  day  after  she 
got  her  senses.  Any  girl  would." 

"  Oh,  you  want  the  job — that's  plain  'nough,"  struck  in 
Sam,  who  was  utterly  impervious  to  compliment. 

"  Granted.  But  not  for  the  money  there  is  in  it.  I'll 
do  it  for  nothing  when  you  get  the  missus  persuaded.  I 
want  the  job,  yes.  Would  you  like  to  be  asked  in  the 
next  world  what  you  had  done  in  this,  and  be  obliged  to 
answer  only,  e  I  had  consumption  ?'  " 

"  Ain't  that  'nough  ?  Wouldn't  the  angels  think  it  was 
'nough  ?" 

"  Oh,  enough — there's  no  denying  that ;  but  not  of  the 
right  kind.  And  leaving  the  next  world  out  of  the  ques 
tion — fact  is,  I  never  took  much  stock  in  it  myself — I'd 
like  to  feel  on  my  own  account  that  I'd  done  something 
to  justify  the  pains  my  people  took  with  my  education. 
This  is  my  last  chance.  That's  why  I'm  anxious.  Think 
it  over — think  it  over.  There's  as  much  good  in  the  af 
fair  for  you  as  for  me.  There's  110  hurry.  I  sha'n't  die 
for  a  month  or  six  weeks  yet.  And  when  you've  made  up 
your  mind — " 

"  It's  the  missus's  mind  that  has  to  be  made  up." 

"You  can  bring  her  around.     And  if  you  can't — " 

"  Wot  then  ?" 

"  We'll  do  it  without  her  consent,  if  you'll  stand  by 
me." 

"Oh  !  I'm  to  bear  the  hull  brunt  o'  the  bizness,  am  I  ? 
'W  if  she  's  to  die,  I'm  to  be  'sponsible  ?" 

The  doctor  smiled  grimly. 

"  I  shall  be  out  of  that  part  of  it,"  he  declared. 

"  You  out  o'  it  when  ye  done  it  ?  Ye'll  be  in  it,/  tell 
ye — strickly  in  it !" 

The  strange  man  shook  his  head. 


260 

"I  should  soon  follow  her,"  he  said,  without  emo 
tion. 

Sam  snorted. 

"  Ye  ortn't  to  hurry  on  her  'count.  They  ain't  no  rea 
son  to  think  she'd  be  puttickler  glad  to  see  ye,  under  the 
circumstances.  "Well,  we  won't  talk  'bout  it  no  more. 
We'll  let  the  little  un  stay  jes'  like  she  is  —  that's  wot  you 
'n'  me  '11  do.  /  don't  want  no  sech  weight  on  me.  The 
little  gal 't  I  love  so  !  Let  'er  stay  like  she  is  !" 

The  doctor  stirred  restlessly. 

"And  you  won't  speak  to  the  missus  ?" 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

The  doctor  gave  him  a  stare  which  went  through  and 
through  him.  Then  he  smiled. 

S(  You'll  change  your  mind  by  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "It  won't  let  you  sleep  till  you've  settled  it. 
Think  it  over,  I  tell  you.  You'll  never  be  sorry  !" 

Sam  left  him  with  that,  and  as  he  drove  the  steer  home 
through  the  devious  gulches  his  thoughts,  in  spite  of  all 
he  could  do,  dwelt  on  the  doctor's  plan,  and  followed  it 
out  to  its  ultimate  possibilities.  He  could  not  get  away 
from  it ;  it  followed  him  like  a  distempered  dream.  He 
was  like  one  who  adds  a  column  of  figures  over  and  over 
that  won't  come  right.  Up  and  down  he  went  with  a 
mental  forefinger,  recalculating  with  painful  persistence, 
going  back  to  correct  mistakes,  looking  ahead  for  possi 
ble  difficulties,  perplexed,  shaken,  dissatisfied.  The  steer 
could  have  escaped  him  a  dozen  times  in  the  underbrush 
or  among  the  rocks  had  it  not  been  a  mean-spirited, 
docile  creature  that  had  grown  up  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  home  ranch.  As  it  was,  Sam  kept  at  the  ani 
mal's  tail  without  difficulty,  and  arrived  home  with  no 
greater  misfortune  than  the  increased  perplexity  of  his 
thoughts. 

"  Ye  got  it  ?"  asked  Phoebe  Ellen,  meeting  him  on  the 
porch. 


261 


He  came  to  himself  with  a  start. 

"  Oh,  ye  was  talkin'  o'  the.  steer  ?"  he  inquired.  "Oh 
yes,  I  got  the  steer. " 

"Wot  else  should  I  be  talkin'  of?"  she  demanded, 
sharply. 

"  Nothing"  said  Sam. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FOE  three  or  four  days  after  his  interview  with  the 
doctor  Sam  moved  about  the  ranch  in  a  condition  of 
complete  mental  collapse.  The  man  of  medicine  had 
spoken  truth  when  he  said  that  the  cowboy  would  be  un 
able  to  sleep  until  he  had  settled  the  matter  of  the  opera 
tion  for  good  and  all.  He  didn't  sleep ;  neither  did  he 
settle  the  matter.  He  performed  his  duties  like  a  man  in 
a  dream,  but  with  a  face  so  careworn  and  perplexed  that 
Phoebe  Ellen  began  to  be  worried  about  his  health. 

"Wot's  the  matter?"  she  asked  him  a  dozen  times. 
And— 

"Nothing"  was  his  invariable  answer,  delivered  so 
shortly  as  to  sound  like  a  monosyllable. 

"  Suthin'  9s  up/'  Phoebe  Ellen  concluded.  But  just 
what  was  a  matter  which  her  imagination  strained  at 
vainly. 

Sam  lost  his  appetite  ;  he  grew  thin  -}  he  became  irrita 
ble.  Often  he  rose  at  night,  and,  wrapping  his  big  fur 
overcoat  about  him,  wandered  down  to  the  river  and  sat 
by  the  hour  gazing  into  the  water,  where  he  could  see  his 
face  staring  up  at  him  with  the  same  lack-lustre  vacancy 
that  filled  the  moon  in  the  river  as  it  stared  back  at  the 
moon  in  the  sky.  Sometimes  he  grew  nervous  at  the 
idiotic  vision  and  flung  stones  into  the  quiet  water  along 
the  margin,  rejoicing  to  see  his  features  crack  into  faintly 
luminous  fragments,  and  wishing  that  by  some  such  sim 
ple  process  he  could  break  the  mental  incapacity  which 
the  image  shadowed  forth.  At  times  he  almost  believed 
in  the  doctor's  ability  to  carry  the  operation  through ; 


263 

but  always  a  doubt  immediately  afterwards  seized  him 
and  shook  all  hope  out  of  him.  Often  he  was  on  the 
point  of  telling  the  missus  and  thrusting  the  responsibility 
of  a  decision  upon  her,  and  as  of  ten  his  conscience  silenced 
him  by  the  assurance  of  her  inability  to  decide.  He  knew 
beforehand  just  what  her  decision  would  be.  And  she 
had  no  right  to  assume  control  of  the  girl's  fate  without 
other  recommendation  than  her  own  prejudices. 

"  The  Doc  was  right  when  he  said  Fd  got  to  settle  the 
hull  matter  myself,"  groaned  Sam. 

Then  he  would  remember  certain  of  Sedgwick's  words. 

"  He  said  we  could  git  ''long  'thout  the  missus's  corn- 
sent  if  Fd  stan'  by  'im.  But  how  ?  How  kin  /  cornsent  ?" 
And  then, as  an  afterthought,  "How  kin  I  refuse?" 

Sometimes  his  thoughts  ran  in  figures  of  speech. 

"  Fm  like  Abe  Fadden  that  time  when  a  rattler  fastened 
on  'im  V  stuck,  V  he  didn't  dare  to  take  holt  o'  the  thing 
V  tear  it  loose.  Lord  i  wot  a  dirty  world,  when  a  man 
has  no  mind  o'  his  own  !" 

And  the  burden  of  it  all  was  : 

"  I  mus'  make  up  my  mind  one  way  or  Another — I've  got 
to  decide."  But  he  never  did. 

"This  can't  go  on  forever,"  he  told  himself,  grimly. 
"  They'll  have  me  in  the  'sylum  to  Pueblo  in  Another 
week." 

But  one  day  an  inspiration  occurred  to  him  which 
promised  at  least  a  partial  relief  from  the  dizzying  tor 
ment  of  conflicting  thoughts. 

"  Why  not  ast  the  little  un  'erself  ?  She  knows  jes' 
how  she  is ;  she  can't  learn  to  read,  but  she  kin  onder- 
stan'  a  heap  o'  common-sense ;  we've  talked  over  how  she 
got  hurt  on  the  landslide  a  dozen  times.  She  might  not 
take  a  sensible  view — great  God  !  wot  is  a  sensible  view  ? 
— but  then  agin  she  might.  She's  got  a  heap  more  jedg- 
ment  V  'er  sister  gives  'er  credit  fer.  Anyway,  she  may 
say  suthin'  't  '11  help  me  out." 


264 


That  very  afternoon  he  found  her  alone  by  Dan's  grave 
on  the  mountain  -  side.  She  made  a  desolate  picture 
among  the  dry  grass  and  weeds,  the  black  pines  above  her, 
and  a  few  autumnal  clouds  wandering  helplessly  about  in 
the  sky.  She  had  flung  herself  forward  against  the  low 
pile  of  stones,  her  arms  stretched  out  and  her  hands 
clasped.  Her  face  was  hidden ;  her  attitude  was  one  of 
deep  dejection,  perhaps  of  tears. 

He  paused  in  doubt,  wondering  if  it  were  possible  to 
retreat  without  being  discovered.  If  he  turned,  he  would 
be  sure  to  arouse  her.  In  his  perplexity  he  stood  quite 
still,  and  his  attention  being  concentrated  upon  the  pros 
trate  figure,  he  could  see  that  she  was  weeping.  There 
was  an  irregular,  convulsive  heaving  of  the  shoulders 
which  told  him  everything,  although  he  heard  nothing. 
How  still  the  world  was!  And  yet  there  was  a  muffled 
sound  from  the  river,  and  the  pines  seemed  trying  to 
voice  a  soul's  extreme  desolation. 

"Til  go  back/'  he  decided,  and  turned  cautiously. 
1 '  Pore  little  thing — pore  little  thing  !" 

But  the  dry  twig  of  a  fallen  pine  brushed  his  shoulder 
and  snapped  with  a  loud  noise.  Anny  lifted  her  head 
abruptly. 

"  Sam  I"  she  cried,  when  she  saw  who  it  was. 

He  turned,  but  made  no  movement  in  her  direction. 
The  silence  seemed  to  deepen  with  a  slow  crescendo  from 
the  pines  and  an  explicit  sibilance  from  the  river. 

"  I  was  goin',"  he  said,  at  last.  "  I  didn't  aim  to  break 
in  on  ye." 

"  I'm  glad  I  heerd  ye,"  said  Anny,  straightening  herself 
a  little  away  from  the  heap  of  stones. 

He  came  forward  and  sat  down  at  her  side. 

"  Ye  was  cryin',"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  his. 

She  was  no  more  ashamed  of  her  tears  than  a  child 
would  have  been,  and  her  eyes  were  still  overflowing  as 
she  looked  at  him. 


265 


"Yes,"  she  admitted. 

"  Wot  about  ?" 

"1  felt  like  it."  Her  voice  trembled  a  little,  but  he 
heard  it  above  the  pines  and  the  distinct  river.  "I  felt 
like  it  'ud  do  me  good.  'N'  so  I  flung  myself  down.  ^N 
«  the  tears  come,  'n'  I  didn't  try  to  stop  'em.  Fm  glad  I 
done  it,  too.  I  feel  lots  better.  Ye  don't  like  to  have 
me  cry  ?" 

"  No.  I  don't  see  how  it  kin  be  good  fer  ye.  'Tain't 
good  fer  nobody  to  feel  bad.  I  like  to  see  ye  chipper  V 
happy." 

"  This  time  it  done  me  good/'  she  insisted,  gently,  but 
with  deference  to  his  opinion. 

"  Anything  happened  to  make  ye  feel  bad  ?" 

"No." 

"  Missus  'ain't  done  nothin'  ?" 

"  Oh  no." 

"  Then  wot  started  ye  up?" 

She  was  silent,  evidently  collecting  her  thoughts. 

"  I  come  out  a-walkiir — I  wanted  to  git  some  o'  the 
purty  red  leaves  up  there  among  the  rocks.  'N'  I  was 
passin'  Dan's  grave  kind  o'  slow  like,  V  all  to  wunst  I  felt 
like  I  wanted  to  stop  a  bit,  so  I  sot  down.  'N'  I  got 
to  thinkiii'  'bout  'im — 'bout  Dan,  I  mean,  'n'  wot  ye've 
tole  me  'bout  'im  dif'reiit  times,  'n'  how  good  he  was,  'n' 
how  ye  was  frien's  with  'im,  V  all' the  rest.  Then  I  got 
to  thinkin'  'bout  myself,  V  how  I  couldn't  'member 
nothin'  'bout  'im,  not  even  his  looks,  sence  I  got  hurt. 
'N'  then  it  come  over  me — I  d'  know  how — but  'peared 
like  I  seen  all  to  wunst  how  dretful  'twas — how  orfle !  I 
wanted  to  'member  'im — I  wanted  to  think  o'  'im  like  I 
must  'a'  done  afore  the  lan'slide  ,  but  I  couldn't  think  o'  a 
thing  but  wot  I'd  been  tole  by  you  V  sis,  V  that  seemed 
so  kinder  faint  like.  'N'  it  come  over  me  't  likely  I 
wouldn't  never  be  no  better,  but  'ud  allus  be  queer,  not 
like  other  folks  ;  people  kind  to  me,  but  pityin'  me,  too  ; 


266 


'n'  fer  a  minute  I  wished  I  was  dead.  It  'ud  be  so  easy  to 
lay  still,  'way  down  under  the  ground  along  o'  Dan — 
mebbe  I'd.  know  'im  there  jes'  like  I  used  to  !  So  I  laid 
my  face  down  on  the  stones  V  cried.  'N'  Fin  better 
now."  She  looked  at  him,  smiling  tremulously  through 
her  tears.  "  I  don't  cry  much.  Most  o"  the  time  I  laff  at 
the  rabbits  'n'  squirrels  'n'  grasshoppers.  But  this  time  it 
done  me  sech  good  !  Fm  'most  williii'  to  be  queer  the 
rest  o'  my  life  now — if  I  kin  have  you  allus  'round  \" 

"  I'll  allus  be  'round/'  said  Sam,  almost  solemnly. 

"  I  reckon  I  couldn't  live  nohow  if  ye  was  to  leave  me. 
Anyways,  I  don't  see  how.  Sis  is  good  to  me — so  is  the 
others.  But—" 

"  I  won't  leave  ye,"  promised  Sam.  "  But — wot  was  ye 
goin'  to  say  ?  Ye  ain't  quite  corntent,  even  with  me  ?" 

She  sighed  heavily. 

"  How  kin  I  be,  when  I  think  I  used  to  be  like  other 
folks  V  when  I  think  -o'  wot  I  be  now  ?  I've  lost  so 
much — so  much  't  I  don't  know  'bout,  too."  The  pathos 
of  the  words  brought  the  tears  to  Sam's  eyes.  "  It's  all 
been  comin'  over  me  stronger  'n'  stronger  o'  late.  I'm 
gittin'  better,  I  know  I  be  ;  but  the  better  I  git  the  more 
I  long  to  be  wot  I  was — the  more  plain  I  see  wot  I  orfcer 
be  this  minute — wot  I  might  be  if  it  hadn't  been  fer  that 
dretful  day.  I  try  not  to  think  o'  it — I  try  to  think  o' 
the  squirrels  V  the  cattle  'n'  horses  'n'  trees,  'n'  how  good 
you  be  to  me  ;  but.it  comes  back  to  me,  spite  o'  everything. 
I  say  to  myself,  '  Sam  loves  ye,  Sam  keers  fer  ye,  ye  little 
fool.  Ain't  that  'nough  ?'  I  say,  '  If  harm  comes,  Sam's 
near  to  look  arter  ye.'  But  all  the  same  I  keep  hankerin' 
arter  suthin'  I  'ain't  got ;  ye  know  wot  I  mean  ?" 

"  I  know — I  know." 

"  I  feel  kind  o'  lost  like.  Sometimes  I  don't  know 
where  I  be  or  wot  I'm  lookiii'  at.  I  want  suthin'  I  'ain't 
got.  I  can't  somehow  say  it — " 

"  I  onderstan'.     I've  thort  o'  it  often  myself." 


267 


"  I  orter  be  corntent  with  wot  I've  got,  I  know — " 

"No,  no,  little  un.  It's  right  V  natural  't  it  should 
trouble  ye." 

'"W  ye  ain't  mad  at  me  ?" 

The  question  was  a  common  one  with  her,  and  he  loved 
it  as  an  evidence  of  her  childish  affection. 

"No!"  he  answered.  Then  with  unpremeditated  ve 
hemence,  "I'd  give  my  own  soul  to  bring  back  your 
health  to  ye — I  would  !"  The  earnestness  of  his  emotion 
left  his  mouth  tremulous,  and  he  controlled  himself  with 
difficulty,  but  he  presently  went  on.  "  'N'  you — wot  must 
it  be  to  you  ?" 

She  crept  closer  to  him,  taking  his  hand  in  hers  and 
stroking  it  gently. 

"  Ye'll  never  be  corntent  to  live  like  this,"  he  said. 

"No."  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  and  sat  quite  mo 
tionless.  "  How  kin  I  be,  sence  Fve  learned  to  think  ?  I 
have  learned  to  think,  Sam — not  allus  right,  mebbe,  but 
better  'n  wot  I  used  to — ever  so  much  better.  I  'member 
how  it  was.  I'd  start  to  say  suthin'  V  I  couldn't  see  my 
way  clear,  V  I'd  either  stop,  or  end  by  sayin'  suthin'  else. 
But  now  a  idee  stays  with  me — I  start  to  talk,  'n'  it's 
like  a  light  was  kerried  in  front  o'  me — I  go  straight 
ahead." 

"  Secli  things  alrnos'  make  me  b'lieve  in  God,"  thought 
Sam.  "If  I'd  prayed  fer  'em,  I  would  b'lieve  in  Him." 
But  he  said  nothing. 

Anny  went  on,  stroking  his  hand  again. 

"  'N'  yit,  why  shouldn't  I  be  corntent  ?  Wot  do  I  lack  ? 
I've  got  everything,  when  ye  come  right  down  to  it,  's  long 
's  I've  got  you.  I'm  'shamed  o'  myself — I  feel  guilty. 
But — tell  me  one  thing,  Sam.  Tell  me  honest 'n'  true." 
Her  face  was  so  serious  that  he  felt  his  own  features  draw 
ing  into  sober  lines  from  sympathy. 

"Wot  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  gently. 

The  question  came  with  childish  directness. 


268 


"  Wouldn't  ye  keer  more  for  me — tell  me  the  truth  ! — 
if  I  was  like  wot  I  used  to  be  ?" 

Sam  recoiled  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow.  But  she 
did  not  wait  for  an  answer. 

"  I  want  ye  to  like  me  all  ye  kin — I  need  it,  it's  the  life 
o'  me.  'IS '  if  that  'ud  make  ye  think  more  o'  me,  how  kin 
I  help  wishin'  V  longing  for  it  ?  Oh,  I  do  wish  V  long 
for  it !  If  only  the  landslide  had  been  a  minute  earlier  or 
later !  Then—then—" 

Sam  had  recovered  by  this  time,  and  spoke  soothingly. 

"  I  shall  allus  love  ye,  no  matter  how  ye  be.  Listen  !  I 
come  out  to  say  suthin'  to  ye — suthin'  't  Fve  had  on  my 
mind  fer  days.  Ye're  well  'nough  to  onderstan'  it — yer 
talk  to-day  proves  ye're  well  'nough.  It's  a  hard  question 
— the  very  question  ye've  been  talkin'  'bout.  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  ye  the  hull  thing, 'n'  leave  ye  to  jedge  for  yerself." 

She  faced  him  with  grave  inquiry. 

"  I'll  try  to  onderstan',"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Ye  'member  yer  visit  to  the  Halsteads'  a  few  days 
ago  ?" 

She  nodded. 

«'W  the  Doc?" 

"Yes." 

"  Ye  'member  the  long  talk  ye  had  with  'im  out  there 
among  the  rocks  ?" 

"Yes." 

"'N'  how  he  took  holt  o'  yer  head  'n'  'samined  it  ?" 

"He  allus  does  that." 

"  But  didn't  it  take  'im  longer  this  time  ?" 

She  considered  gravely. 

"  I  reckon  it  did,"  she  finally  answered. 

"Well,  they  was  a  objeck  in  all  that." 

"Aobjeck?" 

"  I  mean,  he  knowed  wot  he  was  'bout.  He  was  tryin' 
to  find  out  suthin'." 

"'Bout  my  head?" 


He  rushed  on  as  if  afraid  his  courage  would  fail  him. 

"I  knowed  ye  was  better  —  I'd  been  a-knowin'  it  fer 
ever  so  long — 'n'  1  wanted  'im  to  see  ye  'n'  tell  me  wot 
he  thort  o'  ye.  I  wanted  to  know  if  they  was  a  chance  o' 
yer  gittin'  well." 

He  knew  that  her  chin  fell  after  a  fashion  she  had 
when  surprised  or  frightened,  but  he  kept  his  eyes  turned 
away. 

"He  was  tryin'  ye  all  the  time  ye  was  there  to  see  if 
they  was  hopes." 

He  heard  a  little  gasp  from  her,  but  still  he  did  not 
turn. 

"  'N'  arter  I  come  back  from  the  range  I  had  a  long  talk 
with  'im  on  the  porch.  Ye  wasn't  there,  'n'  didn't  know 
nothin'  'bout  it.  Ye  was  with  Mis'  Hal  stead  in  the 
kitchen. " 

He  looked  at  her  now,Vith  a  half-expectation  of  seeing 
her  face  alter  and  grow  into  the  expression  which  he  re 
membered  as  belonging  to  her  before  the  accident.  But 
her  eyes  were  only  widened  with  a  painful  interest,  and 
her  parted  lips  were  tremulous  with  an  eagerness  which  he 
had  often  seen  there  in  her  present  state. 

"He  said  they  waVt  no  hopes  o'  yer  gittin"  back  yer 
mem'ry,  even  if  ye  went  on  improvin'.  That  is — " 

She  caught  breathlessly  at  the  conditional  phrase. 

"  Then  they  is  hope  ?"  she  whispered. 

"No— V  yes." 

The  relaxed  mouth  closed,  but  the  nostrils  dilated  at 
the  same  moment  with  the  passage  of  her  hurried  breath. 

"  Oh  I"  she  gasped,  faintly.     "  Wot  made  ye  tell  me  ?" 

"  I  felt  bad,  too — ye  kin  make  shore  I  did.  Fd  laid  out 
not  to  be  disapp'inted,  no  matter  wot  was  said,  but  I  found 
I  was  mistook.  I  was  disapp'inted.  He  said  he  didn't  see 
no  reason  why  ye  shouldn't  go  on  improvin',  but  ye'd 
never  git  well." 

Oh  !"  was  her  faint  exhalation  once  more. 


270 

"  But  he  tole  me  'nother  thing." 

She  did  not  change  her  attitude,  but  her  eyes  looked 
into  his  with  a  keener  light. 

"  He  said  ye  wouldn't  git  well  if  ye  was  left  to  yer- 
sclf." 

'"  He  meant—" 

"  He  said  they  was  hope — " 

She  flung  herself  forward  with  a  wild  look. 

' '  Hope  ?"  she  cried  out. 

He  laid  his  hand  reassuringly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Hope— if  we  could  make  up  our  minds  to  try  the 
course  o'  treatment  he  wants  us  to." 

She  sank  back  against  the  stones  of  the  grave,  but  with 
out  removing  her  eyes  from  his. 

"I'll  do  anything  !"  he  heard  her  breathe. 

"He  spoke  o'  a  operation — " 

"Wot's  that?" 

She  sat  erect  and  looked  alert  again. 

"  It  means  he'd  have  to  cut  into  yer  head  V  pry  a  bone 
up  'n'  fix  it  so  it  'ud  stay  there." 

"'That's  horrid  !"she  murmured,  after  a  moment. 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  looked  at  him  impatiently. 

"  Well  ?"  she  asked. 

"  The  chances  is — " 

"TIM  git  well?" 

"He  says  so." 

"But  I  might—" 

"  The  operation  might  kill  ye.  He  was  fair  in  statin' 
the  case.  It's  dangerous,  V  he  said  so." 

Anny  was  silent. 

' '  I  been  tryin.'  to  think  wot  to  do,"  Sam  went  on. 
"  Fve  laid  awake  nights  weighin'  it.  But  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind.  It's  so  mixed.  If  it  was  only  myself — " 

"  If  it  was  yerself  ?     Wot  then  ?" 

"  I'd  take  my  chances  with  the  operation." 

"  But  bein'  it's  me — " 


271 

"  The  chances  seem  too  slim." 

"But  they  ain't  no  slimmer  'n  wot  they'd  be  for  you." 

"  I  think  more  o'  you  'n  wot  I  do  o'  myself." 

"  Oh  !"  was  her  only  answer. 

He  drew  closer  to  her,  taking  her  hand. 

"Shall  I  explain  it  over  ag'in  ?"  he  asked.  "Be  ye 
shore  ye  onderstan'  ?  Shall  I — " 

"I  onderstan',"  she  answered,  dully. 

'"W  wot  d'  ye  say?"  he  urged.  "Ye  see  wot  the 
chances  is  ?" 

"I  'ain't  had  time  to  think/'  she  murmured. 

"The  odds  is  in  yer  favior ;  he  said  that,  V  he  put 
the  hull  thing  straight  'n'  fair.  I  couldn't  see  't  he  was 
tryin'  to  hide  anything.  Ye've  got  a  good  constitution. 
He  said  ye  could  stan'  it  'thout  doubt  's  fur  's  that  goes. 
'N'  if  the  operation  was  to  go  right — if  he  wasn't  to  dig 
too  deep — " 

Anny's  eyes  were  full  of  unutterable  pathos. 

"I  don't  want  to  die,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Sam's  heart  gave  a  great  leap. 

"Die  ?    ISTo — no  !"  he  cried  out. 

She  seemed  to  forget  what  her  meditations  had  been  a 
moment  before. 

"I'm  afeerd  to  die.  'Ud  they  put  me  here  by  Dan  ? 
'W  pile  rocks  over  me  ?  Oh,  it  'ud  be  cold  V  dretful  !" 

"  Don't  talk  so  !"  Sam  pleaded.  "  Don't  think  o'  it  no 
more  !  Let  it  go  !" 

"Ye  said  ye'd  do  it  if  it  was  you,  though." 

"I  didn't  go  to  urge  ye,  little  un  —  I  didn't,  reely. 
Don't  think  o'  it  no  more  !" 

"  I  know  ye'd  ruther  have  me  alive — I  know  !  Ye  want 
we  should  keep  in  this  good  world  together.  That's  wot 
I  want,  too.  But  oh !  Sam,  it  'ud  be  a  better  world  if  I 
was  well,  wouldn't  it  ?  Think  o'  it !  Ye'd  love  me  twicet 
's  well — ye'd  keer  twicet  's  much  'bout  bein'  with  me  'n' 
talkin'  to  me !" 


272 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Sam. 

"  If  I  was  to  git  well  V  be  like  other  folks — why,  we'd 
still  be  in  this  good  world  together,  only  ever  'n'  ever  so 
much  happier." 

"  It  might  change  ye,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"Change  me?     How?" 

"  Ye  might  not  keer  fer  me  then." 

"  Fd  keer  fer  ye  if  I  was  dead  !"  she  cried. 

He  carried  her  hand  reverently  to  his  lips. 

"Don't  try  to  make  up  yer  mind  all  in  a  minute,"  he 
said.  "  They's  time  'nough.  The  Doc  ain't  in  no  hurry. 
We  kin  talk  it  over  to-morrer,  or  nex'  day,  or  nex'.  They's 
plenty  o'  time.  Only  keep  it  in  mind,  V  when  ye  want  to 
talk  'bout  it,  we  kin  manage  to  git  together." 

She  looked  quieter  after  this,  and  said  : 

"I'll  think  it  over.  I  kin  see  why  ye  can't  make  up 
yer  mind.  I  mus'  do  it  myself.  'N'  I  will." 

"But  they's  one  thing.  The  missus  mustn't  know. 
Wotever  happens,  we  ain't  ready  fer  'er  to  know  jes'  yit. 
Ye'll  'member  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I'll  go  down  to  the  barn  V  see  if  Leatherhead's  work- 
in'  on  that  saddle  I  give  'im  to  mend.  'Ud  ye  ruther 
stay  'ere  ?" 

"Yes.     I  want  to  think." 

Sam  smoothed  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead, 
glanced  towards  the  house  to  see  if  any  one  was  looking, 
then  kissed  her  and  strode  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SAM  wandered  down  to  the  barn. 

"  How  sensible  she  was  'bout  it !"  he  thought.  "  She's 
got 's  good  jedgment,  when  it  comes  to  a  pinch,  's  half 
the  folks  't  never  had  their  skulls  cracked  V  their  brains 
squeezed  together.  'LI  she  make  up  'er  mind  to  let  the 
Doc  go  ahead  ?  I  hope  not !  I'll  ast  'er  to  marry  me  jes' 
's  she  is — she's  got  sense  'nough  to  decide — 'n'  we'll  let 
the  past  go.  I  wish  't  I  hadn't  said  a  word  to  'er  'bout 
the  bizness.  But  I'm  afeerd  it's  too  late  noAv." 

He  strayed  restlessly  about  the  barn,  touching  this 
thing  and  that  with  hands  that  felt  nothing  but  the 
desire  to  be  on  the  move.  He  stroked  his  favorite  mare 
Judy  in  an  absent  way,  which  that  exacting  lady  resented 
by  impatient  tossings  of  her  head ;  he  acquiesced  almost 
eagerly  in  the  horrible  job  Leatherhead  had  perpetrated 
upon  the  saddle,  and  finally  flung  himself  down  under  the 
thatched  roof  upon  the  hay.  It  was  warm  and  fragrant 
up  there.  The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  loft 
was  full  of  reflections  of  the  red  evening.  Through  a 
chink  in  the  wall  he  could  look  out  at  the  darkening 
foot-hills,  above  which  the  clouds  of  sunset  canopied  the 
world. 

At  supper  no  Anny  was  to  be  seen. 

"  She  wa'n't  a-feelin'  good,"  was  Phoebe  Ellen's  answer 
to  his  question.  "  So  she  went  to  'er  room,  'n'  I  tuck  'er 
some  vittles  afore  I  rung  the  bell  fer  ourselves.  She 
didn't  act  like  she  was  sick — only  tired  like." 

But  Sam  looked  anxious. 

"  No  fever  nor  nothin'  ?"  he  asked. 

18 


274 


"Nothin7  't  I  could  see." 

"  Did  she  eat  the  grub  ?" 

"Not  jes'  then.     But  she  will,  I  make  no  doubt." 

' '  I  reckon  ye'd  tell  me  if  she  was  sick  ?" 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Sam  had  time  to 
wonder  how  his  question  would  be  understood. 

"Oh  yes/'  was  the  answer,  delivered  with  perfect  ci 
vility. 

And  with  that  he  was  obliged  to  be  content. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  was  crossing  the  open  space 
between  the  barn  and  the  corral,  Anny  darted  out  from 
the  shadow  of  a  pine  and  was  upon  him  before  he  was 
fully  aware.  She  had  evidently  been  waiting  for  him. 

"Sam  !  Sam  !"  she  cried,  in  a  shrill  voice,  seizing  his 
arm  and  shaking  it. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  heart  sank. 

"  Ye're  sick,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  notice,  but  shook  his  arm  more  violently. 

"  Think  fer  me  !  Think  fer  me  !"  she  cried  out,  like 
one  in  a  rage. 

He  drew  back,  horrified. 

"  Pore  little  un  !"  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice. 

She  began  to  beat  her  forehead  with  her  left  hand, 
while  she  clutched  his  arm  more  tightly  with  her  right. 

"How  kin  I  think  fer  myself?"  she  demanded,  in  a 
shrill,  hysterical  voice.  "It's  you  'i  mus'  tell  me  wot  to 
do  !" ' 

He  smiled  with  an  effort,  though  he  was  sick  at  heart. 

"  Then  we'll  let  the  Doc  go  hang,"  he  declared. 

But  either  she  would  not  or  could  not  understand. 
She  had  the  look  of  one  frantic  with  pain,  sick  with  the 
torment  of  racked  nerves  and  distempered  thoughts. 
Her  eyes  had  a  lack-lustre,  moony  expression,  which 
broke  now  and  then  into  sudden  brightness.  She  did 
not  try  to  answer,  but  all  at  once  broke  away  from  him 
with  an  inarticulate  cry,  and  fled  towards  the  house.  He 


275 

watched  her  speed  across  the  veranda  and  disappear  in 
the  half  -  darkness  beyond  the  open  door,  and  a  great 
horror  came  over  him. 

"  Have  I  set  'er  crazy  with  all  the  rest  ?"  he  won 
dered. 

He  hung  about  the  house  for  hours,  now  stung  to  de 
spair  by  the  memory  of  her  wild,  convulsed  face,  now 
sinking  into  a  state  bordering  on  apathy  as  his  torment 
became  too  great  to  bear  ;  now  hurrying  out  to  the  barn 
in  an  aimless  spasm  of  movement,  but  always  returning  to 
the  house  in  the  hope  that  she  would  again  appear. 

"  She's  sick/'  was  all  he  could  get  from  the  missus,  who 
eyed  him  with  a  forbidding  glance,  in  which  he  detected 
a  mixture  of  exultation  and  threat.  "She'll  come  down 
when  she  feels  like  it.  Till  then  ye  kin  jes'  nachelly  let 
'er  alone." 

He  did  not  see  her  again  till  afternoon.  Then  he  was 
almost  as  terrified  as  before  at  the  change  which  had  taken 
place  in  her.  She  met  him  with  smiling  calmness  and 
took  both  his  hands. 

"Fve  been  asleep,"  she  explained.  "Ye're  s'prised, 
ain't  ye  ?  But  it  ain't  so  queer.  I  didn't  shet  my  eyes 
all  las'  night.  ]Sror  till  mos'  noon.  I'd  been  runnin' 
aroun'  the  room,  flingin'  myself  fust  into  one  cheer,  then 
Another,  then  rollin'  on  the  bed,  then  settin'  flat  on  the 
floor,  tryin'  to  think  wot  to  do.  Then  all  to  wunst  'peared 
like  suthin'  cool  V  quiet  come  over  me — like  the  sound 
o'  the  river  when  I'm  tired,  only  this  come  stronger ;  'n'' 
I  wanted  to  lay  down  'n'  rest.  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I 
felt  as  I  laid  there — like  a  sunny  bank  when  the  wind 
blows  over  it.  'N'  I  went  to  sleep,  V  when  I  woke  up 
I  was  jes'  's  quiet  's  I  was  when  I  shet  my  eyes  ;  'n'  'peared 
like  the  nap  'd  settled  everything  fer  me.  I  felt  shore 
now  o'  wot  I  wanted  to  do — so  calm  V  sure — I  knowed 
I'd  never  change  my  mind.  'I'll  be  myself  fer  Sam's 
sake,'  says  I.  '  Or  I'll  die.  I'd  ruther  die  'n  not  be  like 


276 


wot  God  made  me.'  'N'  so  it's  settled.  Ye  kin  see  the 
doctor." 

Sam  examined  her  placid  face  with  something  like  awe. 

"  But  if  /  objeck  ?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled,  with  the  same  still  light  of  assurance  in  her 
eyes. 

"'Twon't  do  no  good  now.  'Sides,  ye  won't  objeck, 
not  reely.  Ye  don't  want  me  to  die — ye  don't  want  me 
to  take  chances,  that's  all.  The  cure — ye  know  ye'd  like 
to  see  me  cured.  'N'  I  won't  die.  I'll  live  to  be  wot  I 
was  afore  that  horrid  day.  Die  ?  No !  When  '11  ye  see 
the  Doc  V  tell  'im  ?" 

Sam's  heart  shrank  in  foreboding. 

"I  wish  to  God  I'd  never  told  ye  o'  it  !"  he  cried. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  her  new,  calm  smile.  "Ye  done 
right.  It's  plain  's  day  to  me." 

"  Ye're  shore  ye've  made  up  yer  mind  ?" 

<f  Shore,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 

<"W  won't  change  it?" 

"Never." 

He  half  turned  from  her. 

"  Ye'll  die,  I  know  ye  will !"  he  cried,  with  a  sort  of 
fury. 

"No — no,"  she  soothed,  approaching  him  gently  and 
stroking  his  sleeve.  "No — no  !  I  kin  see  how  it  '11  turn 
out.  Oh,  I  kin  see  so  plain  !" 

He  flung  himself  away  from  her  with  a  vast  impatience 
of  himself. 

"  I  was  a  fool.  I  orter  V  borne  it  as  my  own  trouble  V 
not  forced  it  on  you" 

"  'Tain't  a  trouble  no  longer.  It's  a  joy.  Won't  I  be 
tryin'  to  make  myself  better  fer  yer  sake  ?  Wot  kin  I  do 
better  'n  that  ?" 

"  Live  fer  me  !"  he  cried,  with  something  like  a  sob. 

But  she  only  smiled. 

"When  '11  ye  see  the  Doc  ?"  she  repeated. 


277 


"Never!" 

"Must  I  do  it  myself?  Must  I  go  through  the  oper 
ation  alone  ?  Ah,  Sam,  ye  won't  make  me  do  that !  Wot 
friend  have  I  got  to  look  to  but  you  ?  Ye  won't  fail 
me  now.  Ye'll  stay  with  me  '11'  help  me — I  know  ye 
will  !" 

"Drop  the  hull  infernal  plan — it's  the  devil's  work  !" 

"Don't  urge  me — my  mind's  made  up.  I  could  never 
go  back  arter  this — I've  caught  a  glimpse  o'  wot  I  was  V 
wot  I  may  be.  I'd  be  a  unhappy  critter — I'd  be  allus 
broodin'over  wot  might  V  been." 

"Ye're  good  'nough 's  ye  be,"  declared  Sam.  "If  I 
love  ye,  wot  more  kin  ye  ask  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Shall  I  have  to  go  over  'n'  see  the  Doc  myself  ?" 

"  Wait — wait !"  he  groaned. 

"  Wait  ?  My  mind  won't  change.  Why  not  see  'im 
this  arternoon  ?" 

"  Great  God !     This  arternoon  !" 

"  To-morrer  mornin',  then.  Not  later.  Why  not  do  it 
right  away  ?  I  won't  be  put  off  !" 

"Ye  may  change  yer  mind  by  mornin'," he  persisted. 

She  gave  him  a  slow,  keen  glance  of  comprehension 
such  as  he  had  never  seen  in  her  eyes  before. 

"  I'll  wait  till  then,"  she  said,  and  turned  away. 

He  met  her  before  breakfast,  and  his  heart  failed  him 
as  he  found  her  in  the  same  quiet  mood. 

"Ye'll  go  this  mornin',"  she  began,  not  with  a  question 
ing  accent,  but  in  a  tone  of  calm  statement. 

"  Then  ye  ain't  changed  yer  mind  ?"  he  breathed. 

"  No.     I  know  wot  I'm  doin'.     It's  fer  the  best." 

"  If  harm  comes  o'  it — " 

"I'll  bear  the  blame." 

"  Ye  can't,  fer  it  '11  be  mine.  Oh,  Lord  !  Why  couldn't 
I  V  held  my  tongue  ?" 

"Ye  done  right,"  she  said,  with  a  seriousness  which 


278 


had  grown  out  of  her  new  hopes  and  fears.  "  The  rest  is 
fer  me  to  do.  Ye'll  go  this  mornin'  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  groaned. 

And  after  breakfast  he  set  out  for  Halstead's. 

He  found  the  doctor  in  his  room,,  poring  over  a  volume 
on  brain  surgery. 

"  You  have  decided  ?"  was  his  greeting. 

"She's  decided/'  Sam  answered,  gloomily. 

"  She  ?     The  missus  ?" 

"  The  little  un.  I  'ain't  told  the  missus  a  word.  But 
the  little  un — o'  course  she  had  to  know.  She  was  power 
ful  sensible  'bout  it.  Ye  orter  V  seen  'er.  I  left  the  hull 
bizness  with  her." 

The  doctor  fetched  a  long  breath. 

"  She  is  sensible,"  he  remarked.     "  Is  she  ready  ?" 

"  Ready  V  eager." 

"  You'll  speak  to  the  missus  next  ?" 

"  I  reckon.  Well,  I'll  tackle  'er  afore  dinner,  if  ye  say 
so.  'Pears  like  I'm  in  fer  it  now.  I  don't  'prove  o'  the 
bizness,  I  want  ye  to  onderstan'  that." 

"You  will  after  it's  over.  Come  and  tell  me  the  mis 
sus's  decision  as  soon  as  you  get  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

"'Wit  she  won't  listen?" 

"I've  thought  of  all  that." 

"  I  like  to  think  o'  it,  myself." 

"  Like  to  think  of  it  ?     Why  ?" 

"Fer  then  the  bizness  '11  drop." 

"  Will  it  ?"  The  doctor's  smile  was  enigmatical.  "  You 
remember  what  I  said  the  other  day  ?" 

"  That  we  could  go  on  'thout  'er  ?" 

"Exactly." 

"I've  wondered  wot  ye  meant.  We  might  bring  the 
little  un  over  'ere  to  Halstead's — " 

"No.  The  operation  will  take  place  at  her  own 
home." 

"  Well,  Fll  be— " 


279 


"Fve  gone  over  the  entire  ground.  I  know  what  Fm 
talking  about." 

Sam  was  impressed  by  the  doctor's  confidence. 

"Well,  /don't,  then  !  But  how  d'ye  'pose  to  manage 
it?" 

"Come  to  me  at  once  with  her  decision/'  said  the 
strange  man.  And  more  than  that  Sam  could  not  get 
from  him. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

SAM  stated  the  case  with  an  abruptness  which  would 
have  been  brutal  had  he  intended  to  produce  a  fainting 
fit  in  a  woman  less  steeled  against  surprises  than  Phoebe 
Ellen.  As  it  was,  she  turned  pale — it  was  a  hard  pallor, 
which  might  have  been  painted  on  iron — and  her  features 
drew  together  in  rigid  lines  which  he  felt  would  look 
even  more  unpleasant  when  they  relaxed.  She  had  been 
out  in  the  wind,  and  there  was  the  stiffness  of  aggression 
in  her  scattered  hair.  Her  apron  was  on  crooked,  and 
even  without  the  import  of  Sam's  announcement  in  her 
face  she  had  an  appearance  of  antagonism  which  came 
of  the  feeling  that  the  world  had  taken  sides  against  her. 

But  she  understood  him.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
quite  still,  facing  him  with  wide  eyes,  through  which 
flashed  quick  changes  of  calculation  and  threat. 

"  She  knows  Fll  marry  the  little  un  if  the  doctor  cures 
'er,"  thought  Sam.  "She's  gittin'  fct  all  clear ,afore  she 
says  a  word." 

And  indeed  Phoebe  Ellen's  control  of  herself  was  a 
thing  to  be  wondered  at.  Her  under- jaw  did  not  drop — 
he  had  expected  it  would,  as  was  her  habit  when  sur 
prised  ;  but  her  lips  parted  in  the  thin,  hard  line  against 
her  teeth,  as  he  knew  it  of  old,  and  her  breath  came  in 
quick  impulses  from  the  top  of  her  lungs.  Her  whole 
expression  was  one  of  quivering  excitement,  overmastered 
by  a  momentary  self-control  which  might  give  way  as 
soon  as  it  became  conscious  of  itself. 

And  the  fact  was  that,  apart  from  his  message,  Sam's 
appearance  at  that  particular  moment  was  unfortunate. 


281 


She  had  been  in  a  state  of  domestic  exasperation  all  the 
morning.  Things  had  gone  wrong  ;  the  work  had  set 
itself  against  her  ;  she  could  not  do  anything  just  as  she 
liked.  Leatherhead  had  been  obtuse,  and  she  had  given 
him  more  than  one  lick  with  the  rough  side  of  her 
tongue.  After  all  this,  she  was  in  a  mood  for  decisions. 
She  had  delivered  several  in  the  course  of  the  morning, 
and  they  had  all  proved  rash  and  ill-considered,  but  there 
was  a  promptness  of  perversity  in  her  to-day  which  craved 
outlet  and  action,  and  which  soared  equally  above  reason 
and  sentiment  in  the  delight  of  self-assertion.  In  this 
mood  any  demand  upon  her  generosity  was  dangerous 
both  to  the  cause  and  the  pleader  of  it. 

"  Oh  !  A  operation  ?"  she  repeated,  after  Sam  had 
blurted  out  what  he  had  to  say.  Her  features  did  not 
relax  ;  she  still  preserved  her  self-control,  and  Sam  could 
not  help  noting  that  there  was  something  fine  in  the  pose 
of  the  lifted  chin  and  the  backward  slant  of  the  face  as 
she  half  shut  her  eyes  against  his.  "A  operation  by  Doc 
Sedgwick  ?" 

Sam  nodded. 

"A  operation  by  that  corpse — that  toadstool  ?     Well  \" 

The  lines  around  her  mouth  grew  deeper,  and  her 
breathing  came  from  still  higher  in  her  lungs,  so  that  her 
voice  sounded  thin  though  smooth. 

( '  He  mus'  be  improvin7  in  health/7  she  went  on,  show 
ing  her  teeth  more  broadly  in  a  vixenish  smile.  "He — 
he  mus7  be  gittin'  frisky  to  —  to  ondertake  a  job  like 
that  I" 

"  I  d'  know  's  he  is,"  answered  Sam,  somewhat  awed 
by  her  obvious  struggle  for  self-control. 

He  expected  her  to  laugh  scornfully,  but  she  did  not. 

"Weak  's  ever?"  she  asked,  in  the  same  thin  voice,  in 
which  he  could  detect  her  heart-beats. 

"  He  seems  purty  fur  gone,  that's  a  fact."  And  to  him 
self  Sam  wondered,  "Wot's  she  drivin'  at,  anyhow  ?" 


282 


' ( Trembly,  oncertain,  shaky  ?"  continued  Phoebe  Ellen. 

And  now  he  saw  the  point  she  was  trying  to  make. 

"  Oh,  he  kin  brace  up  on  brandy,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
assurance. 

"  Ye  Vlieve  it  ?" 

The  question  came  quietly  enough,  but  her  lips  were 
quivering.  In  another  moment  her  rage  would  break 
forth.  Would  it  take  the  form  of  shrieks  or  tears  ? 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Heb'lieves  it  hisself  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Fools!" 

She  almost  yielded  to  the  rage  which  Nature  intended 
the  word  to  express,  but  she  caught  her  temper  and  a 
long  breath  at  the  same  moment  and  went  on  : 

"He  wanted  ye  to  ast  me  to  let  'im  operate  on  'er  ?" 

"He  b'lieves  he  could  bring  back  'er  reason." 

"  She's  got  a  sight  more  reason  'n  he  has,  to  frhink  o' 
sech  a  thing."  Her  voice  was  still  tolerably  calm,  though 
the  convulsive  movement  of  her  mouth  continued.  "D' 
you  want  'im  to  try  it  ?"  she  demanded,  suddenly. 

His  answer  was  ready,  and  he  delivered  it  with  a  quiet 
ness  that  surprised  himself. 

"It  'ud  make  me  the  happiest  man  on  top  o'  God's 
green  airth  if  she  was  to  git  well.  Ye  know  that." 

Something  like  a  paralytic  stroke  distorted  her  features 
from  chin  to  forehead. 

"  Tell  'im,"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  that  would  have  been 
a  scream  had  it  not  still  betrayed  the  beating  of  her  heart 
— "tell  'im  HI  never  let  'im  tech  'er — I'll  keep  'er  under 
lock  V  key  fust !  Tell  'im  " — there  came  a  ghastly,  chat 
tering  grin  into  the  twitching  muscles  of  the  mouth  that 
made  her  next  speech  tragic — "tell  'im  I  wouldn't  let  'im 
op'rate  on  a  sick  cat  fer  me  !  Tell  'im  I  wouldn't  let  'im 
op'rate  011  a  paper  doll !  D'  ye  hear  ?"  She  burst  into  a 
dry,  rattling  laugh  which  cracked  in  her  throat  and  left 


283 

her  gasping.  Then,  before  he  had  time  to  wonder  what 
she  would  do  next,  she  turned  and  new  from  the  room 
like  an  animal  in  a  fit. 

Sam  fetched  a  grim  sigh. 

"She  won't  change  'er  mind,  nuther,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "'W  I  swear,  I  d'  know  but  wot  she's  right.  The 
little  un's  mind  's  made  up  fer  keeps,  too,  V  in  the  op'site 
direction — she's  so  calm  'n'  sweet-like  'bout  it 't  ye'd  make 
shore  to  see  'er  't  she'd  had  the  hull  thing  settled  from 
the  beginnin'.  Well,  this  is  a  case  fer  the  Doc  to  settle. 
Didn't  he  say  he  had  some  sort  o'  medicine  fer  sech  a 
crisis  ?  Anyways,  it's  too  much  fer  me.  I'll  go  back  to 
Halstead's  's  fast  as  Judy  kin  take  me,  V  see  wot  lie's  got 
to  offer." 

He  found  the  consumptive  as  he  had  left  him,  propped 
up  on  the  same  tumbled  pillows  and  reading  the  same 
leather-bound  volume  on  brain  surgery. 

"  Well  ?"  he  questioned,  as  Sam  took  his  place  before 
him.  "  Sit  down,  for  God's  sake  !  You  make  me  wild, 
using  up  your  muscular  energy  as  if  it  didn't  amount  to 
anything.  There,  that's  better.  And  now — what's  the 
good  word  ?" 

"She  won't  cornsent,"  said  the  cowboy. 

"You  call  that  a  good  word  ?" 

"Anyways,  it's  got  its  good  side." 

"  So  has  the  devil,  if  you  make  yourself  akin  to  him. 
So  she  refused  ?" 

"From  the  start." 

"  You  pleaded  with  her  ?" 

"If  ye'd  'a'  seen  'er,  ye  wouldn't  ast  that !  I  knowed 
fust  off  't  she  wouldn't  listen." 

The  doctor  closed  the  volume,  and  let  it  slip  between  his 
knee  and  the  arm  of  the  chair.  It  was  too  heavy  for  him 
to  lift  and  thrust  upon  the  stand  at  his  elbow. 

"  I  thought  it  only  right  to  give  her  a  chance,"  he  said. 

"  Ye've  got  suthin"t  ye  reckon '11  bring  'er  to  terms  ?" 


284 


The  strange  man  smiled. 

"I  have." 

"  Better  give  it  up — better  give  it  up  !  They's  's  much 
to  be  said  agin  the  hull  bizness  'a  fer  it." 

"Never!"  The  doctor's  thin  face  took  on  a  look  of 
resolution.  "I  tell  you,  Sam,  I  can  cure  that  girl,  and 
Fm  going  to  do  it.  Fve  been  reading  on  the  subject — I 
knew  most  of  it  before,  but  I  wanted  it  fresh  in  my  mind. 
It  will  be  the  last  act  of  my  life — I  know  that — but  could 
I  quit  the  world  under  happier  circumstances  ?  We've  al 
ready  talked  over  the  reason  why  the  missus  refuses  !  It's 
because  she's  afraid  you'll  marry  the  girl  if  she  gets  well." 

"Her  head's  level  there/'  said  Sam.  "If  the  little  un 
'ud  be  willin'." 

"There's  another  reason,  too." 

"'Cause  she's  got  a  spite  at  ye  ?" 

"  Go  back  to  the  cause  of  her  spite,  and  you'll  have  it." 

Sam  scratched  his  head. 

"  I  never  heerd  'er  say  why  she  hated  ye,"  he  said. 

"No  ?  Then  I'll  tell  you — though  not  in  words.  Sam, 
look  me  straight  in  the  eye." 

The  command  was  peculiar,  and  the  tone  uncanny. 
Sam  obeyed. 

"Ye  come  at  a  feller  like  the  devil  in  a  dream,"  he 
murmured,  after  gazing  a  moment. 

"  Hold  your  eyes  on  mine — hold  them  there  in  spite  of 
something  in  them  that  tries  to  wrench  them  away.  Hold 
them  there  in  spite  of  what  you  know  I  am  looking  at  in 
side  you.  It  is  the  easiest  wray  to  tell  you  why  the  missus 
hates  me." 

Sam  obeyed  with  a  sort  of  dazed  passivity.  A  mysteri 
ous  influence  was  certainly  at  work  upon  him.  He  felt  a 
desire — it  was  like  fear — to  close  his  eyes  against  the  doc 
tor's,  and  shut  out  the  light  which  he  saw  rising  from 
abysmal  depths  and  concentrating  itself  before  rushing 
into  his  own  soul  and  illuminating  it. 


285 


"  All !  you  want  to  turn  away/"  the  strange  man  said,  in 
a  voice  which  sounded  afar  off.  "Don't  use  your  will 
against  mine — only  be  passive  and  let  me  look  in.  It  will 
facilitate  the  business.  Do  my  eyes  hurt  yours  ?  No 
matter.  It  is  but  for  a  moment.  Do  you  feel  the  light 
pouring  in  upon  your  thoughts — sending  sharp  flashes 
here  and  there  ?  Don't  fear — why,  you  are  actually  pale  ! 
Think  of  a  fellow  like  me  frightening  the  blood  from  the 
face  of  one  of  your  stamp.  '  Let  me  look  in — let  me  look 
in.  You  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of — nothing  to  con 
ceal — nothing  that  should  trouble  you  if  I  find  it  out. 
Think  of  something — anything  you  like.  Ah  !  That  is 
right.  You  go  back  involuntarily  to  the  most  important 
event  in  your  life.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  it  ?  It  happened 
at  your  ranch  somewhere  farther  south  —  Las  Animas,  is 
it?  Shall  I  go  on?" 

"  Go  on,"  murmured  Sam,  like  one  in  a  trance. 

"  Your  mind  goes  back  a  long  way — such  a  long  way  ! 
— to  the  time  when  you  first  came  to  Colorado  and  took 
up  your  ranch  from  the  government — ten  years  ago  and 
more.  And  who  is  this  ?  Smith  ?  Yes,  Bill  Smith,  old 
Bill  Smith  is  the  name  I  read  there.  He  settled  on  the 
next  ranch  above — how  many  miles  ? — five  miles  above. 
He  had  a  daughter  Sarah — blue-eyed,  brown-haired,  and 
with  cheeks  as  red  as  the  wild  roses  that  grew  in  the 
canon  above  the  cabin.  You  fell  in  love  with  her — it  was 
natural  at  your  age.  And  really  she  was  pretty;  at  any 
rate,  she  looked  beautiful  to  you.  Lord  !  How  you  loved 
her,  how  you  used  to  follow  her  about,  hanging  upon  her 
words,  gloating  over  her  movements  !  So  did  Tim  Sullivan 
— he  had  dark  eyes  and  a  black  mustache,  did  Tim,  and 
that  decided  the  business.  That's  the  way  with  women — 
if  it  isn't  a  mustache,  it's  something  else  of  equal  im 
portance.  Tim  got  her,  and  you  are  thankful  to-day,  for 
she  leads  him  a  life,  there  on  the  ranch  adjoining  yours. 
But  it  cut  you  up  horribly  at  the  time.  You  left  the 


286 


place — handed  the  ranch  over  to  your  father  and  mother 
and  a  younger  brother,  and  you've  never  had  the  courage 
to  go  back.  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  sentimental, 
Sam  !" 

"Fer  God's  sake,  let  my  affairs  alone!"  breathed  the 
cowboy,  in  terror. 

But  the  doctor  went  on  : 

"You  could  go  back  there  now  —  it  wouldn't  hurt 
much,  now  that  the  little  un  has  driven  Sarah  altogether 
out.  But  she  cut  deep,  that  Sarah,  didn't  she,  Sam  ? 
You  wandered  about  for  years  —  Arizona,  Mexico,  Hono 
lulu — and  finally  settled  here  as  Dan  Thompson's  right- 
hand  man.  There  !  Have  I  read  enough  ?" 

"Too  much,"  muttered  Sam.  "  Lemme  go  —  lemme 
go  !"  He  was  like  a  weak  man  struggling  in  the  grasp  of 
a  strong  one. 

The  doctor  removed  his  eyes  and  the  cowboy  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

"You  may  go,"  he  said,  with  his  enigmatic  smile. 

Sam  sat  for  a  full  minute  rubbing  his  eyes  as  if  to  get 
the  ache  of  the  doctor's  glance  out  of  them. 

"  It  beats  all,"  he  finally  murmured.  "  How  in  God's 
name  'd  ye  do  it  ?" 

"Don't  ask — I  don't  understand  it  myself.  It's  a  gift, 
a  curse — what  you  like.  Suffice  it  that  I  did  it  and  can 
do  it  again.  The  chief  point  is  that  you  admit  I  read 
what  you  were  thinking  about." 

"'Ye  done  it,  shore."     Sam  was  still  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"  Does  any  one  in  this  part  of  the  world  know  the  facts 
I  have  told  you  about  ?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  any  one  ?" 

"No  one,  livin'  or  dead." 

"My  object  in  it  all  was  neither  curiosity  nor  un- 
kindness.  I  wanted  you  to  believe  what  I  tell  you 
next." 


287 

"  Oh,  I  kin  b'lieve  anything  now.  I've  heerd  o'  yer 
doin's  afore,  but  I  never  took  no  stock  in  it.  I  "member 
the  missus — " 

"  Yes,  the  missus  !  She  told  you  I  tried  my  power  on 
her  ?" 

"  Yes.  'W  she  said  she  shet  ye  off  afore  ye  found  out 
anything." 

"She  was  too  sure.  You  believe  I  can  read  people's 
minds,  Sam  ?" 

"It  shorely  beats  the  world  !" 

"Well,  I  saw  into  the  missus's  mind  as  I  did  into 
yours,  only  not  so  far.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I 
found  there." 

Sam  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"Suthin'  to  skeer  'er  with?"  he  questioned,  quickly. 
"  Suthin'  to  make  'er  cornsent  to  the  operation  ?" 

"  My  idea  to  a  dot !  I  didn't  suppose  you  could  grasp 
the  situation  so  readily.  It's  true,  though,  that  she  shut 
me  off  before  I  found  out  all  I  wanted  to  know.  She  has 
a  will,  that  woman.  Rather  hysterical,  to  be  sure,  but 
effectual  as  far  as  keeping  me  out  of  her  affairs  is  con 
cerned.  But  I  found  out  something." 

"Suthin'  to  the  purpose  ?" 

"  I  think  so.     Nothing  definite — " 

"  I'm  afeerd  gen'ral  statements  won't  go,"  remarked 
Sam. 

"I  think  they  will  in  this  case.  Listen  !  The  missus 
has  done  her  sister  some  great  wrong." 

Sam  puckered  his  mouth  to  whistle,  but  relaxed  it  im 
mediately  to  ask : 

"  Her  sister  ?     A  wrong  ?     The  little  un  ?" 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"A  great  wrong  ?     Wot  d'  ye  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew  !  That's  what  exasperates  me  ;  she 
shut  down  on  me  like  a  trap  before  I  could  discover  a 
thing  beyond  the  fact  that  the  little  un  had  been  wronged. 


288 


It  was  evident,  too,  that  the  missus  had  done  the  wrong 
and  feared  detection/'" 

"  That  beats  me,"  muttered  Sam. 

"  You  have  every  reason  to  believe  me/'  said  the  doctor. 

"  Oh,  I  b'lieve  ye,"  Sam  hastened  to  say. 

"I've  shown  you  what  I  can  do  in  the  mind-reading 
line." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  Sam's  eagerness  might  have 
been  construed  into  a  dread  that  the  doctor  would  insist 
on  trying  his  experiment  again. 

"Then  your  course  is  plain.  You  are  to  go  to  the 
missus  and  inform  her  that  unless  she  consents  to  the 
operation,  the  wrong  she  has  done  her  sister  will  be  re 
vealed." 

"  But  how  Tcin  it  be  revealed  if  ye  don't  know  wot  'tis?" 

The  doctor  stirred  impatiently. 

"Don't  be  particular,"  he  said,  in  a  fretful  tone.  " Make 
her  think  you  know  all  about  it — that's  all  you  have  to 
do.  She'll  know  what  you  mean  when  you  threaten  her 
with  the  wrong.  And  she'll  come  down." 

"I  ain't  no  great  shakes  at  pertendin',"  said  Sam,  in  a 
tone  of  regret. 

"  Pretending  is  wicked,  of  course,  except  when  the  end 
justifies  the  means.  But  this  time  so  much  depends 
on  it—" 

"A  wrong,"  said  Sam,  meditatively.  "  Wot  kin  it  be  ? 
The  little  un  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  it — that's  shore. 
It  must  'a'  happened  afore  she  got  hurt.  The  missus  's 
been  good  to  'er  allus,  fur  's  I  kin  see.  A  wrong  !  Ye're 
shore  ?" 

"Quite  sure."     The  doctor's  tone  was  conclusive. 

Sam  fetched  a  mighty  sigh  from  his  abysmal  lungs. 

"I  wish  't  I  was  red  o'  the  hull  bizness,"  he  declared. 
"'N'  Fd  stop  right  'ere  if  I  didn't  know  the  little  un's 
mind  was  made  up.  But" — he  sighed  again — "I'll  try — 
I'll  try  !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

EAKLY  the  next  morning  Sam  again  made  his  appear 
ance  before  the  doctor. 

"  It  didn't  work/'  was  his  brief  announcement.  "All  I 
could  git  out  o'  'er  was  't  ye  mus'  be  crazy  V  she  pitied 
ye.  That  was  'er  fust  'n'  last  word." 

And  he  waited  anxiously  to  see  how  the  news  would 
affect  his  companion. 

"  Oh  !"  was  the  strange  man's  comment,  while  his  eyes 
brightened  dangerously.  "  She  said  I  was  crazy,  did  she  ? 
She  said  she  pitied  me,  hey  ?"  He  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  and  Sam  could  see  his  chest  heave.  "You  came 
over  in  the  backboard  ?"  he  suddenly  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"  There's  room  for  my  trunk  in  behind  ?" 

"Yer  trunk?" 

"  Why  not  ?  I  am  going  back  to  the  ranch  with  you  as 
your  guest  to  stay  a  long  time.  Aren't  you  pleased  ?  I 
swear  you  look  only  surprised  !  Try  to  look  delighted, 
now,  if  only  for  politeness'  sake." 

"  But  the  missus — "  Sam  began. 

The  doctor  set  his  thin  lips. 

"I  shall  incidentally  see  your  mistress,  of  course.  But 
you  will  be  the  chief  object  of  my  tender  solicitude,  and 
I  shall  expect  a  good  deal  of  attention  from  you  in  return. 
And  you'll  begin  by  packing  my  trunk  for  me,  like  a  good 
fellow.  Are  you  ready  ?  First,  the  brandy-bottle — look 
well  to  that ;  and  just  give  me  a  nip  at  it  to  brace  me  up 
for  the  occasion.  Ah,  so  !  Take  a  smile  yourself,  won't 
you  ?  That's  what  you  call  it,  I  think,  out  here.  Ah,  I 

19 


290 


thought  you  would,,  and  now  we  both  feel  better.  Next, 
the  bottles  on  the  shelf  by  the  looking-glass — yes,  the 
whole  drug-store  of  them.  You  don't  know  what  a  lot  of 
stuff  a  man  in  my  condition  has  to  take  in  order  to  fight 
off  the  undertaker.  And  the  case  of  instruments — Fve 
been  examining  them  lately,  and  they're  in  apple-pie  or 
der.  That's  right !  Now  fill  in  with  the  under-clothing 
you'll  find  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  bureau.  Good  !  No 
need  to  lock  it — the  key  isn't  there,  anyway.  Help  me  on 
with  my  overcoat,  and  carry  my  cushions  out  to  the  buck- 
board.  Great  heavens  !  What  makes  you  stare  so  ?  Fin 
not  a  ghost  yet.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  ghost  with  my  pres 
ent  executive  power  ?  Aren't  you  ready  ?  Do  come  on  !" 

"But  ain't  ye  goin'  to  tell  me  wot  ye  mean  to  do  ?" 

"Not  a  word.  I've  got  it  all  to  do  myself,  and  it  will 
come  out  better  if  no  one  knows  what  Fm  at.  Oh,  I  can 
do  it — no  fear  of  that.  I  haven't  felt  so  Avell  since  I  was 
at  Harvard — I  could  lick  my  weight  in  wild-cats,  as  old 
Halstead  says.  When  it's  done,  Fll  tell  you.  Not  a  word 
till  then." 

Phoebe  Ellen  was  surprised  at  the  coming  of  the  doctor, 
but  her  self-control  did  not  desert  her.  She  received  him 
with  civility,  if  not  with  cordiality  ;  and  the  strange  man, 
in  spite  of  the  weariness  induced  by  his  ride,  could  not 
keep  a  touch  of  sarcasm  from  his  greeting. 

"Sam  insisted  so  strongly  on  my  coming  over,"  he  ex 
plained,  with  his  enigmatical  smile.  "And  of  course  I 
knew  I  would  be  heartily  welcomed  by  you.  The  fact  is, 
I  have  been  vegetating  there  at  Halstead's,  and  I  need  a 
bit  of  a  change.  Thanks,  my  health  is  much  improved  of 
late.  /  feel  equal  to  anything.77  He  emphasized  the  words 
to  suit  himself. 

Phoebe  Ellen  returned  the  doctor's  smile  in  kind. 

"  We'll  git  along  nicely  together,"  she  rejoined,  with 
diumond-cut-diamond  aggressiveness.  "  I  feel  jes'  that 
way  myself — ekal  to  anything  /" 


291 

And  her  emphasis  was  as  marked  as  his. 

"She'll  fight  hard,"  was  the  doctor's  mental  com 
ment. 

He  inquired  about  her  sister,  and  she  assured  him  that 
she  was  well,  only  that  she  had  been  keeping  rather  close 
ly  to  her  room  of  late.  Not  ill — no  ;  only  more  quiet  and 
reserved  than  usual. 

"Ah,  that  may  be  a  good  sign,"  said  the  doctor. 

After  seeing  him  and  his  belongings  bestowed  in  the 
guest-chamber — a  room  whose  claims  to  gentility  were 
based  on  an  ingrain  carpet,  three  chromos,  and  a  walnut 
centre-table  with  turned  legs — Phoebe  Ellen  ran  down  to 
the  kitchen. 

"  Leathern ead  !"  she  called  from  the  doorway. 

The  roustabout  looked  up  from  the  kettle  which  he  was 
scraping. 

"  Run  up  the1  Eden  City  road  beyend  the  three  pines 
'n'  watch  there  till  Pinky  comes  along.  I'll  do  yer  work 
'ere  in  the  kitchen." 

Leatherhead's  look  of  aimless  surprise  grew  into  a 
moony  vacancy  of  satisfaction  as  he  comprehended. 

Phoebe  Ellen  continued  : 

"I  want  ye  to  tell  'im  when  he  comes  to  wait  there  fer 
me.  Tell  'im  suthin'  's  happened.  Now,  off  with  ye  !" 

And  she  pushed  him  from  the  house. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  he  was  back.  She  had  been 
watching  for  him,  and  met  him  just  inside  the  kitchen 
door. 

"  Well  ?"  she  inquired.     "  He's  come  ?" 

es  Come  ?  Well,  I  should  say  !  'N'  he's  got  on  a  new  hat 
from  Lagunitas — I  tole  'im  I  wouldn't  be  seen  to  a  dog 
fight  with  it,  'n'  he  said  I  wa'n't  nothin'  but  sloppy  Dutch, 
nohow.  Oh  yes,  he's  come.  Ye  could  V  knocked  'im 
over  with  a  crowbar  when  I  tole  'im  suthin'  'd  happened 
V  he  mus'  wait  fer  ye.  Oh,  be  ye  gone  ?  Well  !  To 
leave  a  feller  right  in  the  middle  o'  a  speech  like  that !" 


292 


And  a  moment  later  Leatherhead's  voice  was  heard  from 
the  kitchen  singing  at  its  highest  pitch  : 

"I  owe  five  dollars  to  O'Grady, 

And  he  thinks  he's  got  a  mortgage  on  my  life  !" 

Phoebe  Ellen  passed  stealthily  out  through  the  wood 
shed,  then  up  the  slope  among  the  rocks.  The  sun  shone 
brightly,  and  gave  a  fierce  blackness  to  the  shadows  on  the 
mountain-side.  A  south  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  music 
of  the  pines  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  autumnal 
silence  of  the  hills. 

A  little  beyond  the  spot  where  the  road  disappeared 
above  the  ridge  she  found  Pinky  with  two  horses  and  a 
buckboard. 

"Come  down  —  come  down  !"  she  cried.  "I'm  out  o' 
breath  'n'  can't  climb  up  there  on  the  seat  beside  ye.  I've 
got  a  world  o'  things  to  say.  Don't  mind  tyin7  the  beasts 
—they'll  stan'." 

Pinky  seated  himself  at  her  side  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
pine. 

"  Wot  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"  She  mus'  go  to-night,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"That's  wot  I  come  fer,"  he  answered.  "I  got  yer 
letter,  V I  made  ready  like  mad.  Does  Sam  suspect  ?" 

"We  could  git  along  if  we  only  had  him  to  deal  with. 
To  Nebrasky.  Ye  onderstan'  ?  Ye're  to  take  'er  to  the 
address  I'll  give  ye  later  on." 

"I've  fixed  everything  so 't  I  kin  leave  at  midnight  on 
the  down  train." 

"  Good  !  But  ye  mus'n't  come  down  to  the  house,  nor 
let  'em  know  ye're  anywheres  near.  Sam  wouldn't  s'peck 
nothin' — we  could  pull  the  wool  over  his  eyes  all  right. 
But  a  dozen  things  has  happened  sence  I  seen  ye.  Ye 
know  why  I  want  'er  to  go.  I  tole  ye  wunst." 

"  I  ain't  likely  to  fergit  it,"  said  Pinky. 


"  Oh,  that — that  waVt  no  reason,  though  I  thought  it 
was  at  the  time.  But  now — Pinky,  it's  a  matter  o'life  'n' 
death  !" 

Pinky's  eyes  were  alert  but  puzzled. 

"  Suthin'  new  ?"  he  asked,  with  increased  anxiety. 

"  Yes.  I  didn't  want  to  hurry  things — I  knowed  it  'ud 
set  Sam  agin  me  ;  but  now  that  don't  tech  me.  She's  got 
to  go,  'n'  quick,  too.  Sam  's  forced  me  to  it — him  V  that 
doctor.  They — they  want  a  operation/' 

tc  A  operation  ?"   Pinky's  mouth  was  wide  with  wonder. 

"Ye  don't  onderstan' — o'  course  not.  But  the  Doc  's 
got  a  bran'-new  maggot  in  his  head.  'N'  Sam's  with  'im. 
They  say  sis  could  be  cured  by  a  operation.  Sam  come 
at  me  yistiddy  like  a  airthquake — ye'd  V  made  shore  the 
world  was  comin'  to  a  end.  That's  why  I  sent  fer  ye  to 
come  right  off.  Suthin'  had  to  be  done." 

"A  operation,"  repeated  Pinky,  considering  deeply. 
"Well,  why  not  try  it,"  he  finally  asked,  "if  the  Doc 
makes  shore  he  kin  cure  'er  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  had  her  answer  ready.  She  could  not 
trust  Pinky  with  the  whole  truth.  He  had  unreservedly 
taken  sides  with  her  thus  far,  but  she  had  an  instinctive 
assurance  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  kid 
napping  if  he  understood  the  deception  she  had  practised 
in  the  ownership  of  the  ranch. 

"  Try  it  ?"  she  cried.  «  He'd  kill  'er  !  Don't  I  know  ? 
He  ain't  no  more  fit  to  do  a  doctor's  operation  'n  a  chat- 
term'  corpse  !  He'd  kill  'er — 'n'  how  'd  we  all  feel  then  ?" 

"He'd  kill  'er  the  fust  thing/'  assented  Pinky,  after 
another  spell  of  meditation. 

"  He  would,  fer  shore.  Our  only  chance  is  to  git  'er 
out  o'  the  way  's  quick  's  ever  we  kin,  fer  him  V  Sam  's 
laid  their  heads  together,  'n'  they're  bound  to  rule  or 
ruin." 

"  I'm  s'prised  at  Sam/'  said  Pinky,  with  a  grieved  head- 
shake. 


294 

"  So  be  I.  But  the  wust  's  to  f oiler.  I  tole  Sam  I'd 
never  cornsent — I  tole  'im  plain  V  solemn,  V  a  body  'd 
think  that  orter  settle  it.  But  it  didn't.  Wot  d'  ye  reckon 
he's  gone  V  done  ?" 

' '  Can't  'magine,"  said  Pinky,  with  another  shake. 

"He's  gone  V  brung  the  doctor  over  on  a  long  visit. 
Don't  I  see  through  'em  ?  They  mean  to  do  that  opera 
tion  some  day  when  I  don't  happen  to  be  on  my  guard.  'S 
if  I  wa'n't  cap'ble  o'  managin'  my  own  sister 't  ain't  able  to 
look  out  fer  'erself  !  No  ;  it  ain't  a  question  o'  marryin' 
Sam  now,  Pinky.  That's  all  over.  All  I  want  's  to  keep 
'im  from  murderin'  my  pore  sister.  I  have  a  right  to  see 
to  that." 

(( No  doubt  o'  that,"  acquiesced  Pinky. 

"'N'  if  ye  git  'er  safe  to  Nebrasky — " 

"  Yes  ?"  interrupted  Pinky,  eagerly. 

' '  I'll  marry  ye  the  day  ye  come  back  !  No — ye  needn't 
kiss  me — I  don't  feel  like  it.  But  I'll  do  wot  I  say.  'N' 
see  'ere.  Git  the  team  'n'  yerself  out  o'  sight  'n'  keep  'em 
there  fer  any  sakes.  That  doctor  's  the  devil's  own — he 
kin  read  ye  like  a  open  book.  He's  tired  now,  V  prob'ly 
he  won't  start  in  with  his  proddin'  and  pryin'  afore 
to-morrer,  'n'  by  that  time — " 

"  It  '11  be  too  late,"  finished  Pinky. 

"It '11  be  too  late!  'N' he  kin  go  back  to  Halstead's 
's  soon  's  he  likes,  'n'  die  there  !  'N'  as  fer  Sam — " 

"Yes — Sam?"  questioned  Pinky,  more  eagerly  than 
before. 

"I'll  fire  'im  off  the  place  to-morrer  !"  was  Phoebe  El 
len's  ultimatum. 

And  she  rose  to  go  back. 

"Ye  kin  drive  off  somers  amongst  the  rocks  V  trees 
where  they  won't  be  apt  to  find  ye,  can't  ye  ?  They's  a 
open  space  up  there  beyend  them  rocks  't  nobody's  likely 
to  go  to.  I'll  bring  ye  suthin'  to  eat  'n'  a  pack  o'  Leather- 
head's  Police  Gazettes  to  look  at.  They're  interestin' — 


295 


mighty  interestin'.  Full  o'  blood  V  pizenin',  'n'  all  sorts 
o'  wicked  things.  I'm  sorry — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right/'  Pinky  assured  her.  "I  sliaVt 
be  lonesome.  I'll  be  thinkin'  o'  our  weddin'-day,  V  that 
'11  make  the  time  pass." 

"Oh,  well,"  was  Phoebe  Ellen's  somewhat  absent  ac 
knowledgment  as  she  started  down  the  hill. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

THE  doctor  was  indeed  tired — so  tired  that  Sam  car 
ried  him  to  his  room  and  put  him  to  bed  as  if  he  were  a 
baby. 

"I'll  go  to  sleep  presently,"  the  sick  man  said.  "I'll 
have  to  take  something,  though — don't  you  see  how  ner 
vous  I  am  ?  Not  brandy — no,  that  doesn't  suit  the  case. 
Take  the  things  out  of  my  trunk,  won't  you  ? — there's  a 
good  soul — and  hand  me  the  bottle  with  the  dark  liquid. 
Never  mind  the  clothes — toss  them  into  a  corner  any 
where.  Did  anything  break  ?  No  ?  That's  lucky.  You 
must  have  packed  them  more  carefully  than  I  thought. 
No — not  that  bottle.  That's  dark,  to  be  sure,  but  it  isn't 
what  I  want.  There  was  no  use  bringing  that  along,  any 
way  ;  but  I  suppose  it  was  with  the  others,  and  I  didn't 
notice.  It  isn't  medicine— at  least,  not  my  medicine.  By 
the  way,  you  might  be  interested  to  know  what  it  is. 
"Well,  it's  an  antidote  to  loco  poisoning." 

"  Loco  poisonin'  ?" 

"  Of  course  you  know  the  loco-weed  that  grows  here 
abouts  ?" 

Sam  nodded. 

"Last  fall  I  got  Leatherhead  to  gather  me  a  lot.  I 
wanted  to  send  it  to  Stafford.  Stafford's  a  friend  of  mine 
in  Boston — a  chemist,  keen  for  poisons,  you  know.  Well, 
I  was  curious  to  have  him  get  at  the  real  principle  of  the 
loco-weed,  and  so  I  sent  enough  of  it  to  set  all  Boston 
crazy  —  or,  according  to  Hahnemann,  enough  to  make 
them  all  sane.  He  went  at  it  with  all  the  joy  in  life,  you 
may  be  sure,  and  frequently  reported  progress  by  letter. 


297 

Well,  he  has  discovered  that  loco-mania  is  the  result  of 
anaemia  of  the  brain ;  in  other  words,  loco-weed  drives 
the  blood  from  the  brain.  So  an  animal  that  takes  loco- 
weed  into  his  system  simply  causes  a  rush  of  blood  from 
the  brain,  and  that  makes  him  mad." 

"  Lord  \"  ejaculated  Sam,  wide-eyed. 

"Stafford  thinks  the  drug  can  be  used  to  advantage  in 
apoplexy,  and  I  don't  see  why  not.  But  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  about  the  bottle  there.  It's  Stafford's  antidote. 
Antidote  means  cure,  you  know.  Now,  a  few  drops  in 
water  would  cure  a  locoed  steer  in  half  an  hour.  And  a 
man — did  you  ever  hear  of  a  locoed  man,  Sam  ?" 

"They  was  a  Mexican  seiiorita  down  in  Sonora  when 
I  was  there  't  dosed  a  feller  to  git  revenge,  'n'  he  died  a 
ravin'  maniac." 

"  Three  drops  of  that  liquid  in  half  a  tumbler  of  water 
would  have  saved  him,"  said  the  doctor,  sententiously. 
"  Stafford  has  tried  the  poison  and  the  remedy  on  himself. 
A  half  an  hour  does  the  business.  Ah  !  There  is  the 
sleeping-potion  ;  would  you  mind  pouring  it  out  for  rne  ? 
A  teaspoonf ul  in  water — thanks,  I  ought  to  have  a  pitcher 
of  water  in  my  room.  I'll  have  to  ask  lots  of  such  things 
of  you,  but  you'll  lose  nothing  by  it  in  the  end." 

The  draught  was  administered,  and  the  doctor  adjust 
ed  himself  among  the  pillows  while  Sam  tucked  him 
snugly  in.  Then  he  darkened  the  room,  placed  the  glass 
and  pitcher  on  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and,  his 
services  being  no  longer  required,  he  left  the  room. 

"I  'ain't  seen  the  little  un  to-day,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  crossed  the  open  space  between  the  house  and  the 
barn.  "  She's  quiet,  the  missus  said,  but  perfeckly  well  ; 
'n'  the  Doc  said  that  might  be  a  good  sign.  I  don't  want 
to  see  'er  to  talk  to  'er,  fer  I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  say;  but 
it  'ud  be  good  to  know  she's  up  'n'  aroun'." 

He  involuntarily  glanced  up  at  Anny's  window,  and 
even  as  he  looked  the  well-known  figure  appeared,  lifting 


298 

the  white  cotton  curtain  for  a  glimpse  of  the  world  out 
side.  She  immediately  saw  him  and  waved  her  hand, 
though  she  made  no  effort  to  stop  him.  He  was  glad  of 
that,  for,  as  he  had  just  told  himself,  he  had  nothing  to 
say.  He  answered  her  signal  eagerly,  but  turned  away  at 
once  lest  she  should  want  to  speak  with  him. 

"The  thing's  in  the  Doc's  hands  now,"  he  thought, 
"  V  I'm  goin'  to  leave  it  there.  When  he's  ready  fer  me 
he'll  tell  me.  Fm  gittin'  a  power  o'  faith  in  the  Doc.  I'm 
glad  he's  come  over,  arter  all." 

Sam  went  to  bed  that  night  with  a  quiet  mind.  He  had 
never  before  realized  the  load  of  responsibility  he  bore  in 
looking  out  for  the  little  un's  safety.  Now  that  the  re 
sponsibility  was  divided,  he  could  sleep  in  peace. 

"If  anything  happens,  the  Doc  '11  know/'  was  his  last 
thought  as  he  closed  his  eyes. 

He  must  have  slept  himself  back  into  his  old  state  of 
watchful  dread,  for  later  on,  when  he  was  awakened  by  a 
blow  struck  by  something  hard  upon  his  door,  he  was  out 
of  bed  and  had  his  trousers  on  while  he  was  still  calling, 
"  Who's  there  ?" 

Before  the  answer  came  he  had  time  for  a  conclusion. 

"  It's  come,  it's  come  's  I  knowed  it  would  !"  he  thought, 
setting  his  teeth.  "Be  they  takin'  the  little  un  off,  or 
have  they  done  it  a'ready  ?" 

"  Don't  shoot,"  pleaded  the  doctor's  voice  from  beyond 
the  door.  "  It's  I  !  Is  the  door  unlocked  ?" 

"  Come  in  !"  called  Sam,  jumping  into  his  first  boot 
and  reaching  for  his  second. 

The  doctor  entered  with  a  comfort  around  him  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  He  had  a  soap  -  dish  in  his  hand, 
which  he  had  evidently  brought  with  him  as  a  knocker. 

"  She's  gone  !"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

The  boot  went  on  with  a  "chug,"  and  in  another  mo 
ment  Sam  was  inside  his  vest  and  jacket. 

"She  ?"     His  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  strained. 


299 


"The  little  un.  They've  taken  her — she's  been  gone 
an  hour  and  a  half." 

Sam  thrust  his  hat  upon  his  head,  and  for  the  first  time 
faced  his  visitor. 

"How  d'ye  know  all  this?"  he  demanded.  "Ye  seen 
'em — ye  heerd  'em  go  ?" 

"  I  haven't  been  awake  more  than  five  minutes.  I  can't 
tell  how  it  was,  but  as  soon  as  I  opened  my  eyes  I  knew 
she  was  gone.  Oh,  it's  true.  You  needn't  stare.  The 
missus  is  here — she  isn't  yet  asleep.  And  at  this  moment 
she  is  rejoicing  that  the  deed  is  accomplished." 

Sam  drew  out  his  huge  silver  watch  and  examined  it 
by  the  moonlight. 

"It's  half  a  hour  till  the  down  train  at  midnight. 
Pinky's  in  this  bizness,  V  that  train's  wot  he's  aimin' 
at.  Five  minutes  to  saddle  Judy — that's  time  V  to 
spare.  It's  seven  mile  from  'ere  to  the  station.  Judy 
kin  make  it !  She's  gone  ten  mile  at  the  rate  o'  a  mile  in 
three  minutes  on  mountain  roads,  'n'  she  kin  do  it  ag'in. 
Twenty-one  minutes  fer  the  journey  —  that  leaves  four 
minutes  fer  accidents.  It's  enough  !" 

He  rushed  from  the  room,  and  the  doctor  heard  the 
echo  of  his  big  boots  through  the  sitting-room  and  out 
upon  the  veranda.  As  for  Sam,  he  had  forgotten  every 
thing  but  the  work  which  lay  before  him.  But  he  was 
not  blind,  and  as  he  dashed  around  the  corner  he  saw  a 
white-robed  figure  leaning  from  the  window  under  the 
roof. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  ?"  Phoebe  Ellen's  voice  called  out. 
And— 

"  Hell's  broke  loose  !"  was  the  cowboy's  answer  as  he 
bounded  towards  the  barn. 

The  barn  door  was  bolted.  He  dashed  his  huge  hand 
against  the  iron  bar  in  a  fury  of  haste.  The  bolt  caught ; 
he  seized  it,  drew  himself  in  at  the  shoulders,  as  was  his 
custom  before  a  mighty  effort,  then  wrenched  the  entire 


300 


complex  of  fastenings  loose,  screws  and  all,  and  flung  them 
aside  among  the  weeds.  The  hollow  gloom  of  the  barn 
yawned  before  him,  crossed  by  bars  of  moonlight  here  and 
there  from  crack  and  window.  He  leaped  into  the  dim, 
spacious  quiet,  stumbling  a  little,  but  regaining  his  foot 
ing  with  an  effort,  in  which  his  head  took  no  part.  Judy's 
stall  was  directly  in  the  moonlight — good.  He  bounded 
thither,  pushed  her  aside  so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon 
her,  and  slipped  her  halter  loose.  The  saddle  hung  on  a 
peg  in  the  wall  four  feet  from  her  heels.  He  had  it  in 
his  hands,  was  shaking  out  the  girth-straps,  which  had 
somehow  become  twisted — no,  that  would  not  do.  He 
must  separate  them  carefully — had  the  devil  been  about 
the  place  to  upset  things  so  ?  Now  !  The  saddle  came 
down  on  Judy's  back  with  a  slap  which  made  her  shiver 
and  draw  her  four  feet  together.  He  reached  for  the 
cinch-strap — it  had  caught  under  the  saddle  on  the  other 
side,  and  his  hand  grasped  only  the  air.  With  one  stride 
he  was  at  Judy's  heels — had  she  known  her  business  she 
might  have  settled  her  midnight  journey  then  and  there 
— with  another  he  was  at  her  side,  lifting  the  saddle  with 
his  right  hand,  and  fumbling  underneath  for  the  delin 
quent  strap.  He  brought  it  out  with  a  force  that  sent  it 
spinning  its  length.  Now  he  was  back  in  his  old  place, 
the  belly-band  in  his  hand  ;  he  drew  the  strap  through 
the  ring,  and  pulled  it  with  all  his  might.  It  gave  a 
slight  noise  of  ripping,  but  he  did  not  notice.  Tighter 
and  tighter — aye,  hump  yourself  and  groan,  Miss  Judy, 
you've  a  tidy  bit  of  work  cut  out  for  you  this  night  ! 
The  bridle  found  its  place  more  easily,  in  spite  of  Judy's 
clinched  teeth ;  Sam  had  but  to  slip  a  vicious  forefinger  into 
the  back  of  her  mouth,  give  it  a  twist,  jam  in  the  bit,  and 
buckle  the  strap  at  the  side  of  the  head.  Then — out  into 
the  moonlight,  leaving  the  barn  door  flapping. 

He  leaped  into  the  saddle  without  the  aid  of  the  stir 
rups,  got  his  feet  into  place,  shook  the  reins,  spoke  once 


301 


in  a  voice  which  Judy  understood,  and  with  a  bound  like 
a  rubber  ball  the  animal  was  up  and  away. 

Phoebe  Ellen  was  still  at  her  window.  She  shouted 
something  either  in  deprecation  or  defiance,  he  could  not 
tell  which.  One  word  rushed  back  at  her  —  his  answer  : 
"  Hell-cat !" — and  he  dashed  on  up  the  hill. 

His  eyes  were  upon  the  road  ;  he  felt  Judy's  slim,  firm 
back  beneath  him,  her  ribs  against  his  knee  ;  the  undula 
tions  of  her  body  went  through  and  through  him,  as  if  he 
were  lifted  and  let  down  by  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  a 
sort  of  joy  rushed  into  his  blood  —  the  fury  of  struggle 
against  odds,  the  determination  to  win,  the  dashing  of 
himself  against  circumstances  with  the  resolve  to  beat 
them  down  or  die.  He  could  have  laughed. 

Up  the  hill  to  the  three  pines  on  the  summit,  where 
Pinky  had  concealed  himself  the  day  before ;  the  saddle 
creaked — there  was  music  in  the  sound  ;  his  legs  pressed 
the  taut  stirrups  hard — there  was  assurance  of  victory  in 
Judy's  easy  resistance  to  his  weight.  On  the  summit  he 
took  out  his  watch  and  examined  it  by  the  moonlight.  A 
curse  escaped  him. 

"That  devilish  belly-band  !  Why  didn't  I  take  time  to 
straighten  it  out  afore  I  hung  the  saddle  up  ?  We've  got 
twenty-one  minutes  fer  the  race,  ole  gal.  No  time  fer 
foolin'  or  fer  accidents.  Kin  ye  make  it— be  ye  onto  yer 
duty,  my  bird  ?" 

He  glanced  back  over  the  valley  just  an  instant ;  then 
he  was  straining  forward  in  the  saddle  once  more,  his 
knees  clamping  Judy's  hard  ribs,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
living  track.  But  he  carried  a  picture  of  the  river  bottom 
with  him  as  he  rushed  forward  through  the  night.  He 
could  see  the  shadows  lying  black  against  the  moonlit 
ground  ;  the  house,  transformed  among  the  cottonwoods, 
looked  like  a  big  white  swan  among  gigantic  reeds ;  the 
river  shallows  had  a  hard,  frozen  shimmer,  and  the  moon 
beams  shook  lightly  over  them  as  if  they  were  drifted  snow. 


302 

Now  came  the  gradual  down-grade  from  the  summit,, 
transfigured  by  the  shadows  of  rocks  and  trees  ;  below, 
the  white,  hard  road ;  above,  the  immeasurable  blue  and 
the  twinkling  stars.  A  night  bird  fluttered  across  his 
path  in  scared  silence,  and  disappeared.  The  sluggish 
mists  on  the  mesa  heaved  inertly  and  settled  back.  The 
wind  seemed  to  blacken  the  pines  as  it  swayed  them  ; 
there  were  urgent  impulses  to  effort  in  the  very  boulders, 
which  seemed  to  lean  forward  and  watch  his  flight.  Here 
were  the  red  sandstone  rocks,  worn  into  queer  shapes  by 
the  storms  of  ages  ;  they  flung  momentary  dizzy  shadows 
across  the  road,  which  made  Sam  shut  his  eyes  with  a 
foolish,  involuntary  fear  that  they  were  solid  and  would 
cause  the  horse  to  stumble.  Now  he  comes  out  on  the 
hill  above  the  canon  into  which  he  must  descend  farther 
on.  It  is  a  huge  crack  in  the  world,  black  as  seen  from 
above,  and  mottled  with  blacker  spots  where  rocks  and 
trees  spring  from  the  bottom  and  sides.  The  creek  can 
be  heard  like  an  approaching  storm  ;  there  is  a  sound  as 
of  thunder  borne  through  watery  depths  of  air. 

"A  mile,"  Sarn  counted,  as  he  looked  at  his  watch. 
"  Ye've  made  it  in  jes'  three  minutes,  ole  gal !" 

And  he  laughed  aloud. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

Now  he  is  in  the  bottom-lands  by  the  stream.  He  flies 
through  darkened  spaces  which  never  felt  the  radiant  in 
spiration  of  the  sun  ;  he  comes  out  in  bald  opens  where 
even  the  sage-brush  refuses  to  grow.  The  wind  sweeps 
strongly  down  from  the  pines  ;  its  sounds  hollow  and  faint 
and  sentimental ;  Sam  hears  it,  and  shudders  and  laughs. 
Here  is  the  ford  below  a  fallen  pine  where  an  Indian  en 
campment  used  to  be  ;  the  bark  is  peeling  off  the  huge 
trunk  in  longitudinal  lines,  leaving  white  gaps  like  rifts  in 
the  side  of  a  ruined  boat.  Judy  splashes  in,  the  spray 
flies  up  and  catches  the  moon,  the  stars  shatter  themselves 
against  each  other  in  the  disturbed  current.  Sam's  thoughts 
are  galloping  as  if  to  keep  pace  with  the  galloping  steed  ; 
he  does  not  plan  the  future — he  has  no  time  for  that ; 
only,  will  the  little  un  still  care  for  him  when  she  gets 
her  mind  back  ?  Or  will  she  turn  out  like  Sarah  ?  Sarah  ! 
Sam's  eyes  are  moist  as  the  comparison  occurs  to  him, 
and  his  hopes  grow  dim  as  memories  seen  through  tears. 
And  on,  on  the  horse  and  his  rider  go,  steadily,  rhythmi 
cally,  as  if  borne  by  strong  wings. 

The  road  runs  more  deeply  into  the  soft,  loamy  soil  of 
the  bottoms,  and  the  hoof-beats  become  muffled  and  the 
mud  flies  ;  then  the  ground  hardens  at  the  foot  of  the 
slimy  caverns  where  green  moss  grows  and  petrifies  on  the 
walls  ;  and  now  he  is  out  on  the  uplands  once  more,  and 
below  him  spreads  the  calmness  of  a  lake  in  whose  depths 
earth  and  sky  are  reflected.  Gullies  lead  the  eye  upward 
into  darkness  ;  the  undulations  of  near  trees  have  a  dizzy 
ing  effect ;  now  the  pines  make  an  impenetrable  black 


304 

roof ;  now  he  is  out  again  under  the  echoless  heaven  and 
the  plunging  moon.  The  regular  puff,  puff  of  Judy's 
breath  grows  into  his  mental  habit ;  it  becomes  a  part 
of  the  landscape  and  his  own  desperation.  Here  is  the 
barbed-wire  corner  of  Mead's  ranch,  whose  owner  lives 
two  miles  away. 

Sam  looks  at  his  watch. 

"Three  miles  we've  made  in  nine  minutes,"  he  says, 
with  satisfaction.  "That  leaves  four  to  make  in  twelve, 
ole  gal.  Keep  it  up  as  ye've  begun,  V  we'll  have  time  to 
spare  !" 

They  turn  an  angle  of  the  canon,  ascend  a  slope,  and 
come  out  on  a  summit  where  the  pines  stand  motionless 
in  the  half-light,  as  if  in  a  translucent  silvery  liquid. 
Mists  are  forming  along  the  stream  below,  like  clouds  ex 
haled  from  marshes.  The  sound  of  the  water  rises  as 
from  under  a  weight ;  the  ghostly  murmur  of  the  pines 
has  the  effect  of  nuns  singing  between  stone-walls,  and 
trying  to  voice  the  wasting  grief  of  their  darkened  lives. 
An  owl  hoots  from  the  cliff.  The  night  is  full  of  sights 
and  sounds  of  awe.  The  deaf  earth  seems  listening,  the 
blind  rocks  peering,  the  dumb  sky  trying  to  speak. 

Up-grade  again  into  the  moonlight,  down  to  water  again 
and  into  the  loamy  bottoms.  Again  the  creek  is  forded, 
again  there  is  a  stretch  of  muddy  soil  on  the  farther  side. 
A  splash — the  water  lets  them  pass  with  a  tearing  sound ; 
the  yielding  loam  deadens  the  flying  hoof-beats,  the  ear 
gets  a  rest,  and  again  the  strain  of  flight  seems  momenta 
rily  relaxed. 

"Good  God!" 

It  is  Sam's  voice,  though  muffled  with  strong  emotion. 
The  two  words  rise  distinctly  above  the  creaking  of  the 
saddle  and  the  hiss  and  puff  of  Judy's  laboring  breath. 
Something  has  given  way  under  him — not  Judy's  back, 
Sam  knows  better  than  that.  He  throws  his  weight  a 
little  to  the  right — the  saddle  follows  him ;  to  the  left,  it 


305 

shifts  in  that  direction.  Judy's  wild  eyes  glare  back  at 
him  in  the  moonlight ;  she  slackens  her  speed  a  little ; 
she  knows  there  is  something  wrong. 

"On,  on  !"  Sam  bellows,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  And 
the  animal  leaps  forward  as  if  shot  from  a  gun. 

But  the  cinch-strap  is  broken — Sam  realizes  the  truth. 
It  is  dangling  against  the  horse's  legs;  the  flying  thong 
lashes  her  sides;  it  strikes  his  own  foot,  and  stings  even 
through  the  thick  cowhide  boot.  Judy  is  disturbed.  She 
gallops  less  evenly,  she  snorts  a  little,  she  glances  behind 
her,  not  fearfully,  but  nervously,  with  the  annoyance  of 
an  intelligent  being  whose  purpose  is  crossed. 

Sam  rides  thus  a  minute  or  so,  still  at  full  speed.  The 
saddle  slips  from  side  to  side.  With  all  his  efforts  he 
cannot  keep  himself  poised.  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road 
almost  flings  him  off.  He  readjusts  himself,  balances, 
shakes  his  feet  free  from  the  stirrups.  Judy  quivers.  She 
is  alert,  but  she  does  not  slacken  her  speed.  He  seizes 
her  by  the  mane,  leaps  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  and 
lands  on  her  shoulders,  clinging  to  her  neck.  For  an  in 
stant  the  saddle  retains  its  place  on  the  horse's  back.  Sam 
kicks  back  at  it.  Vainly.  With  a  backward  thrust  of  his 
body  he  pushes  it  loose,  and  it  slips  to  the  left  —  falls, 
but  not  clear  of  the  horse.  The  broken  strap  catches  her 
hind-leg  and  wraps  around  it  like  a  snake.  Her  foot 
comes  down  upon  the  saddle  with  a  clash  and  scrape.  The 
strap  still  clings,  Judy's  onward  impulse  for  an  instant 
drags  the  saddle  in  the  dirt.  She  stumbles — what  chance 
is  there  to  recover  her  footing,  going  at  that  mad  gait  ? 
She  falls  and  strikes  the  ground  with  a  groan.  But 
Sam  is  on  top.  With  the  cowboy's  instinct  of  self-pres 
ervation  he  calculates  the  direction  of  the  fall,  flings  his 
right  leg  free,  and  falls  astride  the  prostrate  beast.  He 
doesn't  stop  to  curse — there  is  no  time.  He  drops  the 
reins,  gets  his  feet  together  on  the  saddle,  stands  up,  bends 

over  and  unwinds  the  strap  from  the  helpless  fetlock. 
20 


306 


The  horse  does  not  understand  her  freedom  ;  she  turns 
her  long  neck,  panting,  and  faces  him  with  a  wild  hu 
man  glare  in  her  eyes.  Her  nostrils  quiver ;  she  seems 
to  breathe  through  her  whole  body. 

"Up,  Judy  !"  he  cries.  It  is  the  first  time  in  her  life 
that  the  faithful  beast  has  disobeyed.  Now  she  cowers 
to  the  ground,  frightened  and  inert.  "Up — up!"  She 
glares  back  at  him,  and  her  breath  conies  with  a  sobbing 
sound.  It  is  no  time  for  tenderness,  though  Sam  would 
have  exhibited  it  to  the  full  under  other  conditions.  '  He 
kicks  the  prostrate  animal  unmercifully  in  the  ribs.  She 
starts,  draws  her  fore-feet  under,  struggles,  finds  herself 
free,  and  rises  with  a  snort.  Sam  leads  her  a  dozen  paces, 
examining  her  gait.  There  is  no  visible  limp. 

"We'll  make  it  yit !"  he  says  to  himself,  with  set 
teeth. 

In  an  instant  he  is  astride  her  again.  He  puts  the 
spurs  to  her  as  if  the  devil  were  in  him,  and  dashes  bare 
back  up  the  slope  among  the  pines.  Judy  understands 
the  need  of  making  up  lost  time.  Whatever  speed  there 
is  in  her  shows  itself  now.  It  is  useless  to  urge  her.  The 
spirit  of  her  rider  has  passed  into  her  flying  legs  ;  it  is  her 
own  necessity  as  much  as  his  to  strain  forward  to  the  end 
of  their  journey.  She  lays  back  her  ears — there  is  speed 
in  the  very  tips  of  them — straightens  her  neck,  reaches 
out  for  the  ground  with  all  fours  as  if  it  were  a  thing  to 
be  desired,  grasps  it,  dashes  it  behind  her  as  if,  having  at 
tained  it,  she  found  it  useless  ;  and  reaches  out  again  with 
renewed  effort,  fiercer  resolve.  In  a  flash  of  moonlight 
Sam  takes  out  his  watch  and  examines  it. 

"Three  mile  to  make  in  eight  minutes!"  he  an 
nounces.  And  Judy  knows  that  he  is  not  satisfied  with 
her  yet. 

Up  hill  and  down  they  go,  wheeling  around  rocky  prom 
ontories,  circling  projecting  pines,  ascending,  dropping, 
as  a  bird  scales  the  sky.  The  stars  flash  into  each  other; 


307 


the  moon  looks  blue.  The  wind  rushes  one  way,  they  the 
other.  It  whitens  the  aspens  behind  them  as  foam  whit 
ens  the  waves  in  the  wake  of  a  boat.  Sam  hears  nothing 
but  the  dash  of  the  air  against  his  ears,  and  the  beat,  beat,, 
beat  of  the  horse's  hoofs  ;  beat,  beat,  beat,  as  if  his  own 
heart  were  throbbing  outside  him.  The  pines  reel  past  in 
a  maniac  dance  ;  they  clutch  the  blue  moon,  wrestle  with 
her,  hide  her  in  their  huge  black  arms,  then  toss  her  high 
into  heaven  again.  The  shadow  of  the  horse  in  the  white 
light,  long-legged  and  distorted,  projects  itself  against  the 
rocks,  disappears,  heaves  into  sight  in  unexpected  places, 
flattens,  grows  big,  draws  in  like  elastic,  but  always  fol 
lows.  Is  it  possible  that  Judy  is  going  faster  ?  Or  is  it 
only  his  own  desperation,  trying  to  realize  what  he  most 
desires  ?  At  any  rate,  she  is  not  giving  out.  Her  breath 
comes  with  a  hiss  and  goes  with  a  puff  that  reassures  him  ; 
he  can  believe  it  belongs  to  himself.  The  outward  fling 
of  the  fore-feet  comes  regular  and  strong,  and  the  answer 
ing  crash  as  they  strike  the  ground  sends  no  uncertain 
quiver  through  the  slim,  firm  back.  Sam  sits  with  his 
knees  screwed  into  the  animal's  ribs,  his  hand  on  the 
bridle,  not  for  guidance,  but  encouragement ;  he  feels  the 
beast's  sympathy  along  the  leathern  thong,  as  if  it  were  an 
electric  wire  ;  his  lips  are  drawn,  his  nostrils  wide,  his 
teeth  set,  his  eyes  fixed.  From  the  crown  of  his  head  to 
the  sole  of  his  foot  he  is  the  embodiment  of  a  terrible 
purpose. 

Now  he  is  in  Cogswell's  canon,  with  only  the  mesa  be 
tween  him  and  the  valley  where  the  station  is.  Suddenly 
a  sound  drifts  in  along  the  darkened  air — a  remote  sound, 
spreading  into  shallow  echoes  among  the  rocks.  It  dies 
away,  is  repeated,  again  sinks  into  stillness. 

"It's  the  midnight  train  !"  Sam  says,  under  his  breath. 
And  he  dashes  his  spurs  into  the  horse's  bleeding  sides. 

She  leaps  like  a  boat  shot  from  the  crest  to  the  trough 
of  a  wave.  "  Faster — faster  !"  he  calls,  leaning  far  for- 


ward.  "  Faster — faster  !"  After  all  his  hard  riding,  will 
he  be  too  late  ? 

The  wind  strikes  them  hard  on  the  top  of  the  mesa 
overlooking  Eden  City.  The  train  is  not  yet  visible. 
Sam  knows  where  it  is — in  the  canon  a  mile  above.  He 
must  race  with  it — well ;  and  "  Faster — faster  !"  he  still 
hisses  into  Judy's  ear. 

They  cross  the  mesa  like  an  electric  shock.  The  moon 
finds  them  out  and  takes  her  place  at  their  side.  They 
race  together — the  galloping  horse  and  the  galloping 
moon.  Sam  is  dizzy  with  the  wild  flight.  The  stars 
dash  against  his  eyes  like  hailstones. 

"No  jimmyin',  ole  gal  !"  he  says,  to  bring  himself  back 
to  his  senses. 

They  are  down  the  mesa  and  out  upon  the  level  road. 
There  is  an  audible  quiver  in  the  air — the  train  is  not  yet 
in  sight,  but  it  is  approaching. 

"We'll  beat  it !"  Sam  roars.  And  Judy  responds  with 
her  heels. 

The  headlight  of  the  engine  flashes  into  sight  from 
behind  the  rocky  promontory  above  the  depot.  It  thrusts 
a  long  cone  of  light  towards  him,  big  end  first. 

"Now — now  !  Take  to  yer  wings,  my  bird  !"  he  cries. 
""Ye've  got  'em  !"  And  Judy  splits  the  air  like  an  in- 
driven  wedge. 

The  train  slows  up  before  halting.  The  breathless  steed 
flies  on.  The  station  is  close  at  hand.  Sam  can  distin 
guish  three  waiting  figures  on  the  platform — two  men  and 
a  woman :  Pete  Hawkins,  Pinky,  and  the  little  un.  He  has 
hardly  made  them  out  in  the  moonlight  before  he  dashes 
up  to  the  platform  like  a  cloud  torn  from  a  hurricane. 

He  strikes  the  ground — whether  on  his  head  or  his  feet 
he  never  knows. 

"  Sam  !"  cries  the  little  un,  rushing  up  to  him  and 
seizing  his  arm.  "Sam — Sam  \"  and  her  voice  dies  in  a 
hysterical  whimper. 


309 


"All  aboard!"  roars  the  conductor,  a  car's-length  up 
the  platform. 

Sam  puts  his  arm  around  the  girl,  but  does  not  look  at 
her. 

if  Ye'll  see  to  Judy,  won't  ye,  Pete  ?"  he  asks.  "  I 
reckon  I've  killed  'er ;  but — it's  wuth  it,  I  swear  !" 

"  All  aboard  I"  the  conductor  roars  again.  And  the 
engine  coughs  and  wheezes. 

Sam  draws  his  companion  towards  the  nearest  car.  And 
now  Pinky,  for  the  first  time,  ventures  to  make  himself 
heard. 

"Where — where  be  ye  goin'  with  7er  ?"  he  calls  out,  in 
an  uncertain  voice. 

Sam  turns  on  him  with  a  vicious  grin. 

"Now  ye're  askin'  fer  information,"  he  says,  as  he  assists 
Anny  up  the  platform  and  into  the  car. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

PINKY  watched  the  receding  train  with  doubt  in  his 
eyes.  He  stood  silent  and  awkward  for  a  while,  brushing 
np  his  pale  hair  behind  and  contorting  his  body  into  an 
oblique  straddle. 

"Well/'  he  finally  said  to  Pete  Hawkins,  "all  I  got  to 
do  's  to  hitch  up  ag'in  V  go  back  to  the  ranch.  I  hate  it 
like  a  dog." 

"Queer  doin's,"  was  Pete's  only  answer  —  "mighty 
queer  doin's."  And  he  led  Judy  away  to  the  stable  for  a 
rubbing-down. 

Pinky  found  the  mistress  of  the  ranch  up  and  dressed 
and  waiting  for  him.  She  met  him  on  the  veranda  with 
a  lamp  in  her  hand. 

"  He  ketched  ye  \"  was  her  greeting.  And  then,  with 
a  pucker  of  her  hard,  thin  mouth,  "I  knowed  he  would." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Pinky,  in  a  tone  of  exoneration. 

"  God  A'mighty  couldn't  V  helped  it,"  she  declared,  and 
a  look  of  relief  came  laxly  into  Pinky's  face.  "Don't  I 
know  'im  ?  If  he  sets  out  to  do  a  thing,  he'll  do  it  if  the 
heavens  fall." 

"  He  come  up  jest  as  the  train  stopped.  If  he'd  been 
two  minutes  later,  I'd  'a'  had  'im.  Everything  was  goin' 
smoothly,  when  up  he  comes  like  the  devil  shot  through 
the  solid  groun',  'V  wot  could  I  do  ?  I  couldn't  knock 
'im  over  V  drag  'er  into  the  train." 

She  screwed  her  mouth  still  tighter. 

"No.     Had  they  started  back  when  ye  left  ?" 

"Back?  I  should  say  not  I  They  tuck  the  train  to 
gether." 


311 

Phoebe  Ellen's  mouth  relaxed  so  abruptly  that  it  seemed 
as  if  her  very  teeth  must  be  loosened. 

"  They  tuck  the  train  together  ?  Wot  for  ?  Sam  V 
sis  ?  But  where  was  they  goin'  ?" 

"  He  wouldn't  say  a  word.  I  ast  'im,  V  he  grinned 
like  he  was  swollerin'  vitriol,  '11'  looked  dang'rous.  I've 
seen  'im  like  that  afore.  It  allus  means  suthin' — suthin' 
't  ye  don't  expeck.'' 

Phoebe  Ellen  had  led  the  way  into  the  house,  and  was 
sitting  bolt  upright  in  a  chair.  Now  she  drooped  a  little, 
as  if  in  meditation,  and  rested  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"  I  kin  think  wot  it  means,"  she  finally  said. 

"Well,  wot?" 

"Can't  yaw?" 

"I  been  muddlin'  my  brains  with  it  all  the  way  over 
from  the  station,  'n'  I  can't  even  git  a  tail-hold  o'  it. 
Only,  his  idee  seems  to  be  to  git  'er  away  from  us.  That's 
plain." 

"  Yes.  But  they's  plenty  o'  ways  o'  gittin'  'er  away 
from  us.  He's  tuck  the  shorest  way." 

"  How  d'  ye  mean  ?" 

"  He  means  to  hide  'er  somers — like  's  not  down  south 
there  on  that  ranch  o'  his.  He's  got  friends  in  Lagunitas, 
too  ;  he  might  leave  'er  with  them.  They's  dozens  o'  ways 
V  places.  But  we  mus'  be  ready  fer  'im,  that's  all.  While 
I  been*waitin'  'ere  fer  ye,  I  been  thinkin' ;  in  fact,  I've  put 
in  the  time  hard.  We've  got  to  do  suthin',  you  'n'  me  ; 
V  I'm  ready  fer  anything.  Say  !" 

There  was  something  peculiar  in  her  tone,  and  he  gazed 
at  her  with  alert  inquiry. 

"  Wot  now  ?"  he  asked. 

She  met  his  eyes  unabashed. 

"  Ye  still  want  to  marry  me  ?" 

"Don't  I  ?"     Pinky's  voice  was  eager. 

She  nodded  several  times  with  slow  decision. 

"I  don't  blame  ye,"  she  remarked.     "It  'ud  be  a  good 


312 

thing  fer  ye,  V  I  make  no  doubt  ye  keer  fer  me.  "Well, 
we'll  go  V  be  tied  at  daylight." 

Pinky  got  upon  his  feet. 

"D'  ye  mean  it  ?"  he  cried. 

"Set  down — set  down  V  keep  yer  hair  on.  Ole  man 
Halstead's  a  regular  ordained  Methodis'  preacher — used 
to  preach  back  in  Indiany  somers.  He  tole  me  so  hisself. 
\VV11  have  'irn  do  the  job  arter  breakfas'.  He  don't  talk 
much  'bout  it,  'cause  he's  kind  o'  out  o'  the  gospel  biz- 
ness,  I  reckon,  V  sech  things  don't  recommend  a  feller 
in  Collyraydo,  nohow.  But  it's  all  right.  I'll  answer 
fer  that." 

"So  '11  I,"  was  Pinky's  suffusive  rejoinder.     "  But — " 

She  understood  his  objection  before  he  uttered  it  and 
faced  it  boldly. 

"Do  I  love  Sam  any  more?  Shucks!  I  hate  'im. 
There  !  Be  ye  satisfied  ?  'N'  I  need  ye,  Pinky,  to  help 
rne  fight  'im — that's  why  I'm  in  sech  a  hurry  for  the  wed- 
din'.  We'll  see  if  a  man  kin  run  off  with  a  idiot  gal  V 
hide  'er  away  from  'er  folks  'thout  bein'  brought  to  time 
fer  it.  If  we  can't  fix  'im  in  one  way  we  kin  in  'nother. 
'N'  as  a  las'  resort,  there's  allus  the  law.  Be  ye  willin'  to 
stan'  up  agin  'im,  with  me  V  the  ranch  to  back  ye  ?" 

"Willin'?''  Pinky's  eagerness  was  too  evident  to  re 
quire  a  declarative  sentence,  and  Phoebe  Ellen  accepted 
it  in  its  interrogative  form. 

"  Well,"  was  her  way  of  concluding  the  arrangement, 
"  we  kin  git  a  couple  o'  hours'  sleep  yit  afore  breakfas',  I 
reckon,  V  we'll  need  it  if  Sam  should  take  it  into  his 
head  to  come  back  to-morrer.  Ye  kin  have  his  room — ye 
know  yer  way.  Good-night !  Be  ready  when  I  holler  fer 
ye  in  the  mornin'." 

After  breakfast  they  set  out  without  a  word  of  explana 
tion  to  any  one,  and  on  their  return  the  mistress  remarked 
to  Leatherhead  : 

"I've  ast  Pinky  to  stay  with  us  all  day,  'n'  'pears  like 


313 


he's  inclined  to  be  fav'rable.  In  fact,  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  he'd  stay  sev'ral  days.  I've  made  a  proposition  to  'im 
to  stay  right  along  'n'  board  with  us  'n'  let  Pete  Hawkins 
look  arter  the  station  altogether.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  we've  gone  'n'  got  married,  'n'  nat'rally  he'll  stay 
'ere  right  along  where  his  wife  is.  So  ye  kin  lay  a  plate 
fer  'im  reg'lar  when  I  don't  set  the  table  myself." 

And  Leatherhead  departed  in  silence,  for  once  in  his 
life  too  completely  surprised  for  utterance. 

In  the  living-room  they  found  the  doctor.  He  had 
seated  himself  at  the  east  window,  where  the  bright  au 
tumnal  sunshine  made  a  yellow  square  on  the  floor  and 
filled  the  room  with  a  pleasant  warmth.  He  was  propped 
up  on  pillows,  and  each  of  his  eyes  had  a  bright,  interest 
ed  spot  in  it  as  he  turned  to  examine  the  new-comers. 

The  point  widened  into  a  sphere  as  his  glance  met 
Phoebe  Ellen's.  She  knew  what  that  meant — she  had  seen 
that  strange  luminous  expansion  there  before.  But  it  af 
fected  her  differently  now.  She  did  not  fear  it,  she  did 
not  care  for  it;  she  wondered  how  she  ever  could  have 
stood  in  awe  of  it.  She  felt  new,  independent,  careless  of 
supernatural  pryings  ;  she  stood  outside  the  pale  of  praise 
or  blame.  Her  wedding  had  acted  upon  her  as  a  process 
of  cutting  loose  from  old  fears  ;  it  was  the  beginning  of 
complete  emancipation  from  old  limitations  and  domina 
tions  ;  she  felt  herself  expanding  forcefully  into  infinite 
spaces  of  egotism,  supreme,  vociferous.  A  spirit  of  utter 
recklessness  came  over  her — a  longing  to  assert  herself  at 
any  cost,  to  stand  up  in  utter  defiance,  to  face  the  adverse 
powers  of  earth  and  heaven,  and  coerce  them  with  the 
authority  of  rampant  irresponsibility.  Let  him  read  her 
thoughts  if  he  chose — what  could  he  do  with  the  knowl 
edge,  after  all  ?  She  could  have  clutched  the  zenith  and 
torn  it  down  about  her  ears  and  rejoiced  at  her  own  fall 
into  chaos.  Besides,  what  assurance  had  she  that  he 
could  read  her  thoughts  ?  Perhaps  it  had  been  only  a 


314 


nervous  fear  on  her  part.  She  would  see,  let  it  cost  what 
it  might. 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  fierceness  in  which  there  was 
no  effort  at  concealment.  "Look  !"  her  haughty  glance 
said,  "and  I'll  make  it  all  plain  and  easy.  Wot  have  I  to 
fear  from  the  like  o'  you  ?" 

Then,  with  her  eyes  still  upon  his,  she  formulated  these 
words  distinctly  in  her  thoughts  : 

"  Pinky  V  I  are  married.  Ole  man  Halstead  done  it  a 
hour  ago." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  doctor,  as  if  she  had  spoken  aloud. 

"  Wot  be  ye  goin'  to  do  'bout  it  ?"  she  added,  mentally, 
as  before. 

He  understood  her,  for  he  answered  with  a  half-laugh: 

"  Nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  But  it  is  very  interesting 
' — you  can't  think  how  interesting  to  a  man  of  my  peculiar 
prejudices.  I  knew  Halstead  was  a  regularly  ordained 
parson,  only  I  somehow  always  thought  of  him  as  obso 
lete — in  no  way  connected  with  a  living  issue  like  this." 

Pinky,  to  whom  the  doctor  appeared  to  be  answering  a 
question  which  no  one  had  asked,  spoke  up  at  this  juncture. 

"This  is  all-fired  queer," he  remarked  from  a  distance. 

"Shet  up  !"  retorted  his  wife.  "'N'  don't  fool  aroun' 
with  wot  ye  don't  onderstan'.  This  is  my  bizness,  any 
how.  I  want  to  see  wot  he  kin  do." 

She  turned  on  the  doctor  with  the  reckless  abandon  of 
defiance. 

"  D'  ye  want  to  read  further  ?"  she  demanded,  shrilly. 

"Give  me  half  a  chance  and  I'll  show  you,"  was  his 
answer. 

She  flung  her  head  back  with  a  gesture  of  triumphant 
upgiving  to  her  scorn. 

"  Eead,  then  !"  she  cried,  not  less  shrilly,  but  in  a  tone 
that  hardened  as  its  defiance  became  hysterical.  "Eead, 
'n'  know  it  all,  if  ye  like.  I  won't  keep  nothin'  back. 
Wot  do  I  keer  ?  Who'd  b'lieve  ye  if  ye  told  it  all  in  a 


315 


court  o*  jestice  ?  'Ud  Pinky  b'lieve  ye  if  ye  was  to  tell 
'im  now  ?" 

"  Husbands  are  proverbially  obtuse  where  their  wives' 
defects  are  concerned/'  answered  the  doctor,  with  his  half- 
sneer. 

She  stiffened  herself  more  inflexibly  by  clasping  her 
hands  back  to  back  behind  her.  Then  she  thought  out 
her  words  slowly  and  deliberately,  not  for  utterance,  but 
for  the  gratification  of  that  mad  spirit  of  defiance  which 
had  completely  taken  possession  of  her. 

"I  ain't  the  owner  of  this  ranch."  She  felt  his  eyes 
perusing  the  words  in  her  brain  before  she  really  thought 
them  out.  "  It  b'longs  to  my  sister.  I'm  Phoebe  Ellen — 
she's  Anny.  She  was  hurt  in  the  lan'slide,  'n'  I  seen  I 
could  take  'er  place,  so  I  done  it.  I  ain't  sorry.  The 
place  b'longs  to  me  's  much  's  wot  it  does  to  her,  only 
Dan  was  partial.  I  mean  to  keep  wot  I've  got,  too.  D' 
ye  reckon  ye  kin  git  it  from  me  by  tellin'  ?" 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  doctor,  with  his  ghastly,  sarcastic 
smile.  "  I  read  every  word  of  it  —  you  made  it  very 
plain.  Get  the  ranch  from  you  by  telling?  Will  you 
blame  me  that  ajready  I've  thought  of  it  ?  I  have  a  queer 
mind  in  some  ways  ;  it  often  leaps  to  conclusions." 

"  Pinky,  go  out  in  the  kitchen  'n'  stay  with  Leather- 
head  ten  minutes.  I'll  be  through  by  then,"  commanded 
the  bride. 

Obedient  to  the  demands  of  his  new  marital  role,  Pinky 
shuffled  out  of  the  room. 

"He  don't  know,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  jerking  her  head 
towards  the  closed  door.  "He  never  will." 

"  "Won't  he  ?"  inquired  the  doctor,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  exclamatory  through  the  question. 

She  moved  closer  to  him,  her  face  stiffening  into  lines 
of  vindictive  triumph. 

"  Take  it  to  court,  if  that's  wot  ye  mean  ;  I  defy  ye. 
Who'd  b'lieve  a  crazy  consumptive  like  you,  anyhow  ? 


316 

Hovv'd  ye  git  to  court — tell  me  that  ?  Ye'd  die  afore  ye 
could  git  to  the  station.  'N'  I  could  bring  witnesses  't 
ye've  allus  acted  crazy.  Take  it  to  court !  How  kin  ye 
harm  me  ?  Bah  !  I  snap  my  fingers  at  ye  I" 

The  doctor  eyed  her  curiously. 

"  You've  evidently  thought  it  all  out,"  he  remarked. 

"I  have.  'N'  ain't  I  right?  'Ud  any  court  o'  jestice 
in  the  Ian'  take  yer  word  fer  sech  a  thing  ?" 

"No/''  he  admitted. 

"Well,  then  !"  crowed  Phoebe  Ellen. 

The  doctor  left  her  a  full  moment's  enjoyment  of  her 
triumph  before  he  said  a  word. 

"You've  considered  the  matter  from  all  sides,  I  sup 
pose."  His  tone  was  curious,  and  his  idea,  being  merely 
a  repetition  of  what  he  had  said  a  moment  before,  arrested 
her  attention  as  if  he  had  discovered  a  flaw  in  her  logic. 
But  she  snapped  her  fingers  once  more  and  tossed  her 
head. 

"From  all  sides,"  she  asserted,  with  confidence.  "I 
know  where  I  stan' !" 

"  Sometimes  I've  almost  thought,  as  I  have  studied 
your  character  during  the  past  few  months,  that  you  might 
be  capable,  under  the  stress  of  strong  feeling,  of  overlook 
ing  the  essentials  of  a  situation  and  fastening  upon  the 
irrelevant  details."  He  watched  her  with  that  enigmatic 
smile  of  his,  half  sarcastic  and  half  serious. 

He  saw  her  nostrils  dilate  as  if  she  were  catching  her 
breath,  but  there  was  no  other  hint  that  he  had  touched 
her. 

"  Hasn't  it  sometimes  occurred  to  yourself,  now,  that 
you  might  miscalculate  in  such  a  case  ?  I  merely  throw 
it  out  as  a  suggestion,  you  know ;  but  mightn't  you  have 
considered  the  matter  from  all  sides  but  one — one  little 
corner  of  a  side,  so  to  speak  ?  The  wisest  people  some 
times  overlook  the  very  thing  they  are  searching  for." 

Phoebe  Ellen  grew  pale.    This  was  the  very  mistake  she 


317 


had  all  along  felt  capable  of  making,  and  against  which 
she  thought  she  had  especially  guarded. 

"  Shucks  \"  she  scoffed,  but  there  was  an  incipient 
tremor  in  her  voice.  "  Ye  can't  skeer  me!" 

"  Oh,  well,  I'll  say  nothing  further  about  it,  then.  I 
merely  suggested  the  possibility.  Xow,  it  has  occurred 
to  me — " 

"  Yes  ?"  she  demanded,  as  his  voice  trailed  away  in 
well-simulated  meditation. 

He  did  not  notice  her  at  once,  but  finally  he  roused 
himself  and  went  on  : 

"As  I  was  saying,  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  might 
easily  send  back  to  Nebraska  for  the  proper  identification 
of  yourself  and  your  sister — " 

"  Good  Lord  !"  gasped  Phcebe  Ellen,  sinking  into  a 
chair. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

"You  see  ?"  smiled  the  doctor.  "The  simplest  thing 
in  the  world.  And  the  court  wouldn't  have  to  take  the 
word  of  a  crazy  consumptive,  either/' 

"Tin  a  fool !"  muttered  Phoebe  Ellen,  hoarsely. 

"It's  a  case  where  vaulting  ambition  overleaped  itself 
and  fell  on  the  other  side,  that  is  all.  Don't  feel  badly 
about  it.  Wiser  people  have  done  the  same  thing,  as  I 
think  I  remarked  before.  Sam  will  be  glad  to  know  of  it. 
Fve  no  doubt  he'll  take  action  immediately.  He  is  some 
what  exasperated  already,  you  know  ;  and  this  will  set 
him  quite  off." 

"Fm  a  fool !"  repeated  Phoebe  Ellen.  She  looked  hard 
at  her  tormentor,  who  returned  her  gaze  with  the  sarcasm 
of  complete  composure.  "  Fm  allus  seein'  nothin'  but  the 
mood  I  happen  to  be  in.  Fm  allus  scratchin'  my  face  jest 
at  the  minute  I  want  to  look  purty." 

"  You've  certainly  done  it  this  time,"  was  the  doctor's 
only  consolation. 

She  seemed  on  the  point  of  whimpering,  then  suddenly 
changed  her  mind. 

"Why  couldn't  ye  V  died  afore  las'  night  ?"  she  cried 
out. 

"  Providence,"  smiled  the  doctor.  "  I  begin  to  believe 
there  really  is  such  a  thing.  Yes,  I  am  quite  certain  it  was 
Providence.  I  have  been  reserved  for  a  great  moral  work 
in  my  last  days — in  my  last  hoars,  if  you  like  that  better." 

"I  do,"  she  interrupted,  shrilly. 

"Suit  yourself — suit  yourself,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be 
willing  to  die  after  I  get  this  affair  straightened  out." 


319 

<(  Not  afore  ?"  she  hinted,,  viciously. 

"Oh,  I  shall  not  go  before,  I  assure  you,"  he  smiled — > 
"that  is,  unless  you've  got  some  poison  around.  Have 
you  ?  I  shouldn't  wonder  !" 

She  started  guiltily  as  she  remembered  the  dried  loco- 
weed  in  her  valise — she  had  not  thought  of  it  for  weeks  ; 
and  if  the  doctor's  eyes  had  been  upon  her  at  that  moment 
he  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in  reading  the  truth. 
But  as  chance  would  have  it,  he  was  gazing  absently  at 
his  slippered  toes,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  question 
was  only  one  of  those  sarcasms  to  which  he  attached  no 
importance  beyond  the  utterance.  She  could  see  that  he 
was  in  reality  thinking  of  something  else. 

"  Bah  !"  she  said,  in  the  shrill,  bullying  tone  with  which 
he  was  familiar.  "Go  on  insultin'  me — that's  right,  go 
straight  ahead.  If  ye  was  a  man — " 

He  looked  up  with  a  sarcastic,  ventral  laugh. 

"  There  is  compensation  in  all  things,  as  Emerson  long 
ago  taught  us  Bostonians.  He  was  a  great  man,  that  Em 
erson.  My  father  knew  him  personally.  Would  it  inter 
est  you  if  I  were  to  reminisce  a  little  ?"  He  examined 
his  victim  with  a  smile  which  had  a  delicate  gloating  in 
it.  "No  ?  I  see  by  your  look  that  you  are  not  interest 
ed  in  Emerson.  Well,  not  to  speak  further  of  your 
folly  in  revealing  your  secret — it  was  folly,  rank  folly, 
even  my  natural  charity  is  obliged  to  declare — but  leaving 
all  that  out  of  account  for  the  present,  suppose  we  take  a 
moment  or  two  to  regard  the  matter  objectively,  as  it 
were.  It  may  help  us  out." 

"Us?" 

"You,  I  mean.  Ah  !  It  is  lovely  to  be  exact.  There 
was  Dusenbury,  my  mathematics  teacher  at  Harvard,  one 
of  the  most  accurate  of  men.  You  should  have  seen 
him  !  One  day  Hackett,  my  chum  —  I  could  tell  you 
more  stories  about  Hackett  than  you  could  shake  a  stick 
at,  as  the  saying  is — well,  one  day  Hackett — " 


320 

Phoebe  Ellen  tapped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"  Ye  wanted  to  talk  things  over  ?"  she  reminded  him. 

He  grinned. 

"  Oh  yes,  objectively.  To  be  sure.  I  forgot.  Ob 
jectively  means  in  a  sensible  manner.  Fm  inclined  to 
wander  a  little,  you  see.  Probably  it's  a  part  of  my  dis 
ease—or  a  result.  Yes,  by  all  means  let  us  regard  the 
matter  objectively.  To  begin  with,  you've  got  yourself 
into  a  boat.  That  is  very  evident.  You  agree  ?" 

She  made  no  attempt  at  denial. 

"Well  ?"  she  questioned. 

"You're  in  a  boat,"  continued  the  doctor.  "That's 
sure.  Now,  naturally  the  question  suggests  itself  to  you, 
How  shall  I  get  out  ?  You  say  to  yourself,  not  without 
agitation,  as  I  can  perceive,  How  shall  I  reach  solid  land 
again  ?  Am  I  right  in  this  also  ?" 

"Well  ?"  repeated  Phoebe  Ellen. 

Suddenly  the  doctor  tittered. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  Mrs.  Micawber  ?"  he  asked. 

"No  sech  person  where  I've  ever  lived." 

His  titter  died  in  one  of  those  ventral  laughs  which 
Phoebe  Ellen  detested. 

"My  method  of  reasoning  reminded  me  irresistibly  of 
her,"  he  said,  and  then  paused. 

"Was  that  wot  ye  started  to  say?"  demanded  Phoebe 
Ellen. 

"Pardon  me.  I  was  wandering  again.  You  are  right 
— you  do  well  to  call  me  back."  Suddenly  he  opened  his 
eyes  full  upon  hers.  "I  can  see  a  way  out  of  your  diffi 
culty,"  he  said. 

"  D'  ye  feel  like  dyin'  ?     That's  the  only  way  !" 

"  There  is  another  way,"  he  replied,  smilelessly  now. 

"  Fer  me  9"     She  was  leaning  forward  eagerly. 

"For  you." 

"  Not  fer  her  9"  she  insisted. 

"  That  may  or  may  not  be." 


321 


"Ye  be  jokin'.  Wot  good  kin  it  do  me  if  it  leaves  a 
chance  fer  her  ?" 

"  At  least  I  can  see  a  chance  for  you  ;  and  that  is  the 
principal  thing  for  you  to  consider." 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  after  a  tremulous  moment; 
"  that's  the  principal  thing." 

"You  will  understand,  of  course,  that  I  am  not  help 
ing  you  out  on  account  of  any  love  or  admiration  I  bear 
you." 

"'<  Oh,  I  onderstan'  that !  'W  I'd  objeck  to  bein'  helped 
under  them  cornditions." 

"  Good  !  I  have  my  own  ends  to  serve — that  is  the 
long  and  short  of  it.  They  may  be  good,  they  may  be 
bad,  they  may  be  a  mixture  of  good  and  bad  ;  that  is  not 
your  affair.  But  such  as  they  are,  I  purpose  to  attain 
them  before  I  die.  If  you  attain  your  safety  at  the  same 
time,  well  and  good.  I  wash  my  hands  of  that  responsi 
bility." 

"  I  can't  make  ye  out,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen  at  this  point. 

"  You  won't  altogether,  even  when  I've  finished.  But 
I'll  explain  all  that's  necessary.  You  remember  the  op 
eration  that  you  wouldn't  consent  to  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  That  is  the  mainspring  of  the  whole  situation.  Have 
you  no  imagination  ?  Can't  yon  see  the  rest  ?  I've  set 
my  heart  on  that  operation,  and  I  simply  won't  die  till  it 
is  accomplished."  He  set  his  mouth  in  a  ghastly  grim- 
ness  that  had  the  hardness  of  stone.  "Call  it  a  mania, 
a  sick  man's  freak,  a  thirst  for  human  blood — what  you 
will.  Ah,  to  feel  the  scalpel  in  my  fingers  once  more, 
and  the  warm  resistance  of  human  flesh  under  it !"  His 
eyes  shone,  there  was  a  tingling  eagerness  in  the  tremor 
of  his  hands.  "No  matter  :  you  don't  understand.  Be 
sides,  I'd  like  the  last  effort  of  my  life  to  be  for  good — so 
many  of  its  early  efforts  were  in  the  opposite  direction  ! 
"Well,  have  I  said  enough  ?  One  word  more."  His  teeth 


322 

came  together,  and  his  bloodless  lips  parted  around  them 
in  a  grin  which  had  the  tenacious  purpose  of  death  in  it. 
"Til  stay  in  this  world  and  Til  keep  your  secret  at  my 
disposal  till  that  operation  is  performed.  You  may  as 
well  make  up  your  mind  to  that." 

She  looked  sick  and  frightened,,  but  she  managed  to 
articulate  : 

"'W  arter  the  operation  ?" 

"After  that  affairs  will  be  in  your  own  hands." 

' '  I  might  'a'  kep'  'em  there  'thout  any  say-so  o'  your'n 
if  I  hadn't  turned  fool  'n'  defied  ye.  I  could  V  shet  ye 
out  o'  my  mind  like  Fd  done  a  dozen  times  afore." 

' '  True,"  he  smiled  back  at  her,  with  a  renewed  tighten 
ing  of  his  lips  against  his  teeth.  "  But  the  point  you 
have  to  consider  is,  how  to  make  the  best  of  your  own 
folly.  It  isn't  an  uncommon  alternative.  Eegret,  you 
may  be  sure,  makes  nothing  either  way." 

She  braced  herself  erect  in  her  chair. 

"  Ye  wanted  me  to  cornsent  to  the  operation  ?"  she  de 
manded. 

"  Precisely  my  idea  !" 

"She  ain't  'ere  to  be  operated  on.  She's  with  Sam. 
How  '11  ye  git  'er  back  ?" 

"I'll  look  out  for  that." 

"'N'  if  I  won't  cornsent  ?" 

"I  shall  tell  Sam  the  whole  truth  as  soon  as  ever  he  re 
turns." 

"  'N'  if  I  do  ?" 

"I  promise  never  to  speak  of  the  matter  which  you  so 
inadvertently  revealed  to  me." 

She  fixed  a  big,  rigid  wrinkle  between  her  eyes  in  med 
itation. 

"I  reckon  ye  feel  like  they  was  a  purty  good  chance  o' 
curin'  'er,"  she  finally  said,  in  a  tentative  voice. 

"  There  is  certainly  a  chance." 

"  A  purty  good  un  ?" 


323 


te  At  least  not  a  bad  one." 

"  Ye'll  do  yer  best  fer  'er  ?" 

"  On  everybody's  account — yes." 

"  Everybody's  !"  she  objected,  bitterly. 

"  Except  yours."     He  made  his  amendment  gravely. 

"'N'  if  ye  cure  'er— " 

"She  will  attend  to  the  matter  of  her  inheritance  her 
self." 

Phoebe  Ellen  sank  back  with  a  groan. 

"That  'ud  leave  me  jes'  where  I  be,"  she  complained, 
more  bitterly  than  before. 

"Exactly,"  was  the  doctor's  only  answer. 

"  Then  wot's  the  use  o'  me  cornsentin'  in  the  fust 
place  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  grasped  the  point  yet  ?  Because,  as  mat 
ters  stand,  your  case  is  altogether  hopeless.  I  shall  tell 
Sam  the  whole  business  as  soon  as  he  comes  back,  or  as 
soon  thereafter  as  I  may  see  fit.  You  understand  what 
the  outcome  of  that  will  be." 

"  He  wouldn't  give  me  the  ghost  o7  a  show." 

The  doctor  nodded  with  cheerful  assent. 

"Whereas,  if  you  permit  the  operation  to  take  place, 
there  is  a  chance  that  your  sister  will  die.  In  that  case, 
no  one  will  ever  know  the  truth,  and  your  secret  will  be 
buried  with  me  in  my  grave." 

"If  ye  hide  the  truth,  ye'll  be  's  deep  in  the  mud  's  I 
am  in  the  mire,"  sniffed  Phosbe  Ellen,  wheeling  to  a  vin 
dication  of  herself  in  his  complicity. 

The  doctor  seemed  not  disinclined  to  take  up  that  side 
of  the  question. 

"Oh,  I  never  pretended  to  be  good,"  he  said.  "I 
made  friends  with  the  devil  when  I  was  young,  and  have 
never  had  the  slightest  desire  to  break  off  the  acquaint 
ance.  He's  really  a  very  pleasant  chap  —  not  half  so 
black  as  he's  painted.  My  only  difficulty  has  been  that, 
of  late  years,  on  account  of  my  poor  health,  Fve  been  un- 


324 


able  to  meet  the  old  fellow  on  his  own  terms.  One  has 
to  have  an  iron  constitution  really  to  get  into  the  merits 
of  the  devil's  companionship." 

"  Like  's  not  't  was  yer  friendship  fer  'im  't  broke  down 
yer  health,,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  still  in  a  moral  tone., 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  was  the  answer,  delivered  with 
ghastly  cheerfulness.  "Not  a  doubt.  And  if  I  had  my  life 
to  live  over  again,  and  knew  all  the  consequences,  I  de 
clare  seriously  I  should  in  no  way  do  differently.  I  have 
lived  as  far  as  I  had  a  chance — that  might  be  put  upon 
my  tombstone,  and  it  would  indicate  the  truth.  But  to 
the  affair  in  hand.  What  do  you  say  ?  Have  you  made 
up  your  mind  ?" 

"I  don't  see  's  ye're  grantin'  much  to  me,  nohow.  If 
she  don't  git  well,  she  can't  manage  the  proputty,  V  things 
'ud  have  to  stan'  jes'  like  they  be.  If  she  dies,  I'll  be  heir 
in  spite  o'  everything." 

"  This  is  all  on  the  supposition  that  the  operation  takes 
place." 

"'N'  if  she  gits  her  mind  back,  the  hull  thing  comes 
out." 

"Exactly.     No  one  can  help  that." 

"  The  only  gain  to  me  is,  't  if  she  don't  git  well,  or  if 
she  dies,  nobody  '11  know  how  I've  been  monkeyin7  with 
the  law." 

"  You  have  it  to  a  dot." 

"'Pears  like  ye  might  do  better  by  me/'  she  began,  in  a 
wheedling  voice. 

"  As  for  instance  ?" 

"  Let  the  operation  go  !" 

"  And  keep  my  mouth  shut  ?     You  are  modest !" 

"If  ye  should  kill  'er,  I  could  have  ye  'rested!"  she 
threatened. 

The  doctor  laughed  with  faint  enjoyment  of  her  per 
plexities. 

"  The  operation  is  essential/'  was  his  only  comment. 


325 

She  looked  at  him  a  long  moment,  as  if  to  assure  her 
self  of  the  fixedness  of  his  purpose,  then  flung  out  her 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  desperation. 

"  Oh,  ye've  got  me  I"  she  breathed.  "  Wot  kin  I  do 
but  cornsent  ?  Yes,  I  cornsent.  Do  the  operation  when 
ye  like.  Wot  a  fool  I  was — wot  a  snortin',  howlin'  fool !" 

"Thanks,"  said  the  doctor,  with  ambiguous  politeness. 
"  Sam  will  probably  be  back  some  time  to-day,  and  I'll 
talk  the  operation  over  with  him.  Rely  entirely  on  my 
discretion  in  the  other  matter.  I  have  promised  to  keep 
silence,  and  I  shall  have  the  fact  constantly  in  mind. 
Though  the  devil  and  I  are  friends,  he  has  always  found 
me  a  man  of  my  word,  and  so  will  you.  Would  you  mind 
leaving  me  to  myself  for  an  hour  ?  My  rest  was  disturbed 
last  night,  you  know,  and  I  think  I  could  sleep  a  bit. 
Thanks.  I  really  begin  to  feel  the  strain  of  events.  Au 
revoir  !" 

And  the  doctor  found  himself  alone. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

SAM  came  home  a  little  after  dinner,  and,  to  the  sur 
prise  of  every  one,  he  brought  Anny  with  him. 

"  We  had  dinner  with  Pete  Hawkins,"  he  said,  in  an 
swer  to  Leatherhead's  inquiry.  "He's  got  Judy  in  fine 
shape,  cornsiderin'.  Fm  goin'  to  leave  'er  with  'im  a  few 
days  till  she  reety  gits  on  'er  feet  agin.  He  lent  us  his 
horses  '11'  cracky  to  come  over  with,  'n'  said  to  tell  Pinky 
everything  was  all  right  to  the  depot.  The  little  mi's 
stood  up  to  these  'ere  doin's  like  a  soger  in  the  reg'lar 
army.  Ain't  she  lookin'  fine  ?  Where's  the  missus  ?" 

"  The  missus  ?"  repeated  Leatherhead,  his  eyes  expand 
ing  and  rolling.  "  The  missus  ?  Why,  she  seen  ye  comin', 
'n'  flew  up-stairs  like  a  cat  in  a  fit,  she  did.  Say,  is  it  so 
't  she  was  tryin'  to  git  the  little  un  out  o'  the  kentry? 
I'd  like  to  know." 

"It's  so,"  was  Sam's  answer. 

"  Oh,  tripe  !"  was  Leatherhead's  comment.  Then,  with 
a  new  access  of  excitement:  "Say,  suthin'  '&  happened 
sence  ye  was  gone.  Guess  wot  !" 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  guess!"  pleaded  Leatherhead.  Then,  with  a  gush: 
"  Ye  never  could  guess,  I  know." 

But  Sam  still  shook  his  head. 

"  She's  married  !"  cried  Leatherhead,  brief  for  once  in 
his  life. 

"She?    Who?" 

Leatherhead  nodded  and  gulped. 

"  The  missus,  o'  course,  V  Pinky.  He's  out  there  in 
the  kitchen  now.  Fust  he  goes  to  the  winder  V  looks 


327 

out ;  then  lie  comes  back  V  stares  at  the  sink  V  grins, 
V  shakes  'is  head  like  it  was  clean  empty.  I  left  'im 
gazin'  at  the  wood-box  V  rollin'  "is  eyes  like  a  dyin'  duck 
in  a  thunder-storm." 

A  slow  smile  dawned  on  Sam's  features. 

"Wot  a  purty  idee  !"  was  all  he  said  as  he  led  Anny 
away. 

"  Ye  kin  go  to  my  room,"  he  said,  as  he  parted  from 
her.  "  Ye  won't  mind  my  leavin'  ye  a  little  while  to 
speak  to  the  doctor  ?" 

"'No/'  was  the  answer  ;  "  I  ain't  afeerd." 

And  they  separated  without  further  words. 

Sam  found  the  doctor  propped  up  in  his  chair,  hugging 
the  square  of  noonday  sunshine  which  struggled  through 
the  window.  The  strange  man  looked  up  with  grave  ex 
pectancy.  He  was  more  calm  than  usual,  more  steady, 
more  forgetful  of  himself ;  his  heels  kept  their  place  on 
the  floor  without  effort,  and  there  was  little  or  no  strain 
in  the  attitude  of  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

The  two  men  faced  each  other,  their  eyes  meeting  in  a 
long  gaze.  Sam  had  intended  to  speak  and  explain,  but 
there  was  no  need  with  that  steady  gaze  overmastering 
his,  feeling  around  the  edges  of  his  thoughts  as  if  they 
were  material  things  and  could  be  identified  by  touch. 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  doctor,  finally  removing  his 
gaze. 

"  Ye've  got  it  all  ?"  asked  Sam,  with  a  doubtful  smile. 

"  Yes.  It  was  unnecessary,  though.  But  Fm  glad  of 
it." 

"Unne'sary?" 

"  I've  brought  the  missus  to  terms  myself." 

"  You  ?" 

"I !" 

" 'N' how  M  ye  do  it?" 

"  No  matter.  I  promised  not  to  tell.  But  she  has  con 
sented  to  the  operation." 


"  Well,  I'll  be  darned!" 

The  doctor  nodded  slowly. 

"  At  any  time  I  see  fit  to  mention/'  he  added. 

"Well,  we've  got  'er  now,  fer  shore,"  remarked  Sam, 
fetching  a  long  breath.  "  You  wunst  V  me  wunst.  She 
can't  git  loose  from  both  o'  us." 

"Your  wife  wishes  it  as  much  as  ever  ?" 

"More  'n  ever." 

"And  when  will  she  be  ready  ?" 

"To-morrer  !" 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"Good!  But  I  doubt  that.  She  must  diet  two  or 
three  days  in  order  to  get  her  system  into  proper  shape. 
She  seems  well  ?" 

"  Sound  as  a  drum  !" 

"  But  you  are  to  see  to  it  that  she  eats  no  meat,  no 
pastry  of  any  sort,  and  drinks  no  tea  nor  coffee.  She  is 
in  a  quiet  frame  of  mind  ?" 

"  Cool 's  a  cowcumber  !" 

"Keep  her  so.  Possibly  the  operation  may  take  place 
day  after  to-morrow  —  certainly  not  before.  Bring  her 
down  after  a  while  and  let  me  see  her  myself.  I  want  a 
good  look  at  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Sam.     "  'W  ye  feel  ekal  to  it  yerself  ?" 

"I  haven't  been  so  strong  for  months.  And  with  the 
knife  in  my  hand — I  can  feel  it  now  !  One  thing  comes 
over  me  strangely,  though.  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  It  means  no 
harm,  not  even  to  myself,  but  it's  a  queer  thing — a  new 
outcropping  of  my  fate,  so  to  speak.  Have  you  ever  felt 
that  you  were  the  victim  of  an  idea,  that  you  had  an  in 
visible  antagonist  somewhere  who  seized  you  at  the  mo 
ment  of  your  triumph  and  put  your  head  under  his  heel 
as  if  to  prove  that  you  were  subject  to  his  law  ?" 

"Never  thort  o'  sech  a  thing  in  all  my  life  !" 

"It  is  a  horrible  conception  of  one's  relations  with  the 
universe,  but  it  has  come  over  me  frequently.  Time  and 


329 


again  in  my  life  I  have  made  an  effort  about  something — 
a  mighty  effort — only  to  find  at  the  last  moment  that  all 
my  struggling  was  useless.  Just  on  the  point  of  victory  I 
have  failed  utterly,  or  if  I  succeeded  it  was  altogether  by 
accident  and  never  by  the  means  by  which  I  had  chosen 
•  to  prepare  myself  for  success.  It  was  so  with  my  medical 
studies — I  was  on  the  point  of  winning  the  highest  honors, 
when  my  health  broke  down.  You  see  how  it  has  been 
with  this  operation  ;  I  have  worked  for  it  as  I  never 
worked  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven — as  I  never  could  work 
for  the  kingdom  of  heaven — and  at  the  last  moment  my 
trouble  is  made  unnecessary  by  the  power  your  marriage 
with  the  little  un  gives  you  over  the  situation.  You  see 
how  I  mean  ?  It  is  as  if  the  evil  genius  of  my  life  said, 
'  Struggle  on  your  own  account  if  you  like,  but  you  are  in 
my  power.  If  you  succeed  at  all,  it  is  by  the  efforts  of 
others,  and  never  by  your  own.'  I  have  a  queer  feeling 
about  this  operation,  too.  It  will  be  successful — I  know 
it  as  by  second-sight.  But  something — I  cannot  now  see 
what — will  happen  to  take  the  knowledge  of  success  away 
from  me.  Perhaps  Til  die  before  she  recovers — you  know 
it  may  take  her  some  time.  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  will 
go  into  the  next  world  without  the  assurance  of  having 
accomplished  anything  in  this;  that  would  suit  my  evil 
genius  too  well.  Do  you  follow  me  ?" 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  when  Sam  went  to  his  room  to 
inquire  how  the  little  un  was  passing  the  time,  he  found 
Phoebe  Ellen  already  established  there.  She  rose  to  meet 
him,  startled  but  defiant,  while  a  quick  flush  appeared  in 
her  thin,  hard  cheeks,  and  an  angry  gleam  came  at  him 
like  a  visible  prod  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  waVt  a-lookin'  fer  you"  she  began,  with  a  warlike 
toss  of  her  head.  "I  come  to  see  my  sister/' 

"  I  come  to  see  my  wife/'  was  Sam's  retort.  He  seated 
himself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  where  Anny  was  lying,  and 
crossed  his  huge  legs  comfortably. 


330 

An  electric  shock  seemed  to  pass  through  Phoebe  Ellen. 

"  Yer  wife  ?"  she  screeched. 

"'Ain't  nobody  told  ye?"  he  inquired,  with  compos 
ure.  ' '  Then  I  reckon  the  Doc  'ain't  opened  his  head  yit. 
He's  the  only  one  't  knows. " 

"  Married  I" 

Phoebe  Ellen's  voice  grew  muffled,  but  somehow  lost 
none  of  its  shrillness. 

"  We  be,"  was  the  cool  response.  "  We  got  to  Laguni- 
tas  at  daylight,  took  breakfas',  hunted  a  squire  at  eight 
o'clock,  had  the  bizness  done  in  apple-pie  order,  'n'  started 
back  at  half-past." 

She  burst  into  a  dry,  whinnying  laugh. 

"  Oh,  she's  got  some  un  to  look  arter  'er  now  !"  she 
choked.  "  She's  got  some  un  to  look  arter  'er  now,  fer 
shore  !" 

"She  has,"  assented  Sam.  <"W  the  fact  '11  be  made 
plainer  to  ye  as  they's  need  o'  it.  I'm  glad  ye  come  in 
this  arternoon.  It's  time  you  'n'  me  was  gittin'  at  a  on- 
derstandin',  arter  wot  happened  las'  night.  Sech  doin's 
can't  go  011  where  my  wife's  cornsarned — o'  course  ye  on- 
derstan'  that  ?" 

"I  onderstan'  that,  ye  may  be  shore,"  retorted  Phoebe 
Ellen,  with  spirit.  ' ( 'N'  I  onderstan'  more  'n  that,  too. 
I  onderstan'  't  I  own  this  'ere  ranch,  V  't  I  inten'  to  run  it. 
'W  if  outsiders  makes  up  their  minds  they're  goin'  to  stay 
'ere  'n'  live  off  'm  me  's  long  's  they  see  fit  to  do  nothin',  all 
I  got  to  say  is  they'll  git  slipped  up.  That's  wot  /  on 
derstan'.  So  ye  kin  jes'  nachelly  take  yer  wife  V  shin 
out  with  'er  's  quick  's  th'  Lord  '11  let  ye.  'N'  the  sooner 
the  quicker — so  there  !" 

The  same  masterful  look  which  she  had  first  seen  at  the 
station  came  into  Sam's  face  at  this  moment,  though  he 
grinned. 

"  We  thort  o'  stayin'  till  arter  the  operation,"  he  re 
marked. 


331 

" Oh,  ye  did,  did  ye?  Ye  'lowed  ye'd  stay  till  arter  the 
operation  !  Well,  who  invited  ye  ?" 

"  We  invited  ourselves,  V  'ere  we  stay  till  we  git  ready 
to  go,  though  ye  turn  black  in  the  face  with  orderin'  us 
out.  'N'  if  you  turn  too  rusty,  I'll  kidnap  ye  'n'  Pinky 
both,  V  tote  ye  down  to  Lagunitas  to  have  a  interview 
with  a  lawyer  I  know  down  there.  'Ud  that  please  ye  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  sniffed,  but  she  knew  by  certain  unmis 
takable  signs  that  Sam  was  quite  capable  of  carrying  out 
his  threat. 

"I  tole  the  Doc  ye  could  stay  till  arter  the  operation," 
she  said,  in  a  milder  tone.  "  I  never  'd  'low  it  from  your 
say-so,  though,"  she  flashed  out  again.  "'N'  arter  the 
operation  's  over  ?" 

"  We'll  stay  till  my  wife  is  perfeckly  well  V  able  to  trav 
el,"  said  Sam.  "'N'  we'll  have  the  best  the  house  affords,  or 
they'll  be  scenery  on  the  Thompson  ranch  !  The  ranch 
is  your'n — I  own  up  to  it.  But  arter  las'  night,  we  have 
some  claims,  my  wife  'n'  me,  'n'  we  mean  to  work  'em  fer 
all  they're  wuth.  Was  she  botherin'  ye  afore  I  come  in?" 
he  asked,  in  an  altered  tone,  turning  to  Anny. 

"No,"  was  the  quiet  answer.  "She  jes'  come  in  a 
minute  afore  wot  you  did.  She  said  she  was  glad  to  see 
me." 

"How  purty  o'  her  !"  said  Sam,  turning  to  his  visitor. 

Phoebe  Ellen  bridled. 

"  I  reckon  I  got  a  right  to  be  glad,  arter  she's  been  run 
off  with  by  a  runnygate  V  nobody  could  tell  whether  I'd 
ever  see  'er  agin,  V  her  not  knowin'  how  to  take  keer  o' 
herself.  I  d'  know  who  's  got  a  better  right — 'less  it's 
my  sister  'erself  !" 

"  Yer  sister  'd  better  be  a  cat  in  hell  'thout  claws  'n  to 
live  in  the  same  house  with  you  'thout  some  un  to  look 
arter  'er,"  remarked  Sam. 

"Oh,  she's  got  some  un  to  look  arter  'er  now,"  repeated 
Phoebe  Ellen,  viciously,  for  the  third  time. 


332 


"My  only  shame  is/'  said  Sam,  " 't  I  feel  like  I'd  took 
a  advantage,  her  not  bein'  'erself.  Fm  fair  'nough  to  see 
't  there's  where  ye've  got  a  p'int  agin  me.  But  this  I 
say  :  she  ain't  my  wife  'cept  in  name  till  arter  the  opera 
tion  's  over  V  she's  got  'er  own  mind  back,  V  kin  make 
'er  own  ch'ice.  Till  then  she's  my  sister,  only  I  have  a 
husban's  right  to  watch  over  'er  V  see  't  she  gits  fair 
treatment.  Arter  that  she  kin  git  shet  o'  me  if  'er  mind 
comes  back  '11'  she  feels  like  I'd  been  imposin'  on  'er.  It  '11 
be  a  easy  thing." 

"'IS'  if  'er  mind  don't  come  back  ?" 

"  Then  I'll  take  'er  away  as  my  sister,  V  I'll  look  arter 
'er  as  sech  the  rest  o'  my  life.  Be  shore  I  won't  leave  'er 
to  you." 

"That's  a  relief,"  snorted  Phoebe  Ellen.  "Ye  kin 
make  shore  /'//  never  make  a  fight  fer  the  priv'lege  o' 
lookin'  arter  yer  wives." 

Sam  took  no  notice  of  this  retort,  but  reverted  to  the 
theme  uppermost  in  his  thoughts. 

"  The  Doc  says  't  all  the  'rangements  fer  the  operation 
's  been  pervided  fer  atween  you  V  him.  He  didn't  tell 
how  he  managed  it,  but  that's  all  right." 

"Yes,  it's  all' ranged." 

"I  wouldn't  V  married  the  little  tin  jes'  yit — it's  only 
right  to  say  so — if  I'd  'a'  knowed  he  could  'a'  got  yer  corn- 
sent  like  this  'ere.  I'd  'a'  waited  till  arterward,  when  she 
could  V  had  a  fairer  show  fer  a  husban'.  But  I  ain't 
sorry.  I  can  look  arter  things  with  a  heap  more  sperrit 
V  carefulness  'n  wot  I  could  if  I  didn't  have  a  husban's 
rights." 

Phoebe  Ellen  tossed  her  head. 

"Oh,  a  husban's  rights  !"  she  snapped.  "Very  purty 
— very  fine  !  But  they's  others  besides  you  'round  this 
ranch  't  's  got  husban's  rights  sence  ye  left  'ere  las'  night 
at  midnight !" 

"  Pore  Pinky  !"  murmured  Sam. 


333 

"  Pore  Pinky  ?"  flashed  Phoebe  Ellen.     "  I  like  that  \" 

Sam's  face  relaxed  into  a  broad  grin. 

"Leatherhead  tole  me  'bout  it,"  he  said.  "  Pore  Pinky  ! 
I  hope  he  won't  live  long,  V  't  he'll  be  happy  if  he  kin  !" 

And  with  that  their  interview  ended.  But  Phoebe  El 
len  did  not  fully  realize  what  Sam's  marriage  meant  until 
that  night  she  stumbled  upon  his  huge  body  stretched  in 
a  blanket  before  Army's  door.  He  was  guarding  his  wife 
against  a  second  kidnapping.  And  the  mistress  of  the 
ranch  passed  on  with  rage  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

Two  days  later,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Sam 
might  have  been  seen  in  the  doctor's  room,  lending  such 
assistance  as  he  could  in  the  preparation  of  a  table  at  the 
head  of  the  bed. 

"  The  light  will  be  perfect  in  about  an  hour,"  said  the 
man  of  science.  "I've  been  watching  it  ever  since  I 
came,  and  I  know  just  how  it  lies  in  the  room  at  every 
hour  of  the  day.  The  two  windows  are  precisely  what  we 
want.  Do  I  look  excited  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Sam,  after  a  deliberate  examination 
of  the  sick  man's  features. 

"You  do,"  declared  the  doctor. 

' '  Ye  don't  expeck  me  to  go  aroun'  singin'  like  a  Texas 
mockin'-bird,"  reproved  Sam,  "when  my  wife's  on  the 
p'int  o'  havin'  'er  head  cut  open  ?" 

"  No.  But  you  know  how  I  look  when  I'm  fluttered  ? 
You've  seen  me  ?" 

"Plenty  o' times." 

"Feel  my  pulse." 

Sam  laid  his  fingers  on  the  doctor's  skinny  wrist. 

"  Stiddy  's  a  clock,"  he  announced,  after  a  moment. 

"  The  same  thing  can't  be  said  of  you,  I  warrant !  I'm 
not  tremulous — I  don't  appear  weak  ?" 

"Ye're  like  another  man.  I  feel  like  I  hadn't  never 
reely  seen  ye  afore." 

The  doctor  laughed  softly. 

"  You  know  how  I  brought  it  to  pass  ?" 

"  Brandy,"  answered  Sam. 

"Eight  you  are — brandy  respectfully  approached  and 


335 


appealed  to  with  a  rational  regard  for  its  intelligent  help 
fulness.  There  isn't  one  man  in  ten  thousand  that  un 
derstands  the  real  nature  and  significance  of  strong  drink 
• — its  essential  benignity,  the  true  kindness  of  its  heart,  so 
to  speak,  its  purpose  and  place  in  the  creative  plan.  But 
brandy  and  I  understand  each  other.  Our  relations  have 
been  prolonged  and  peculiar ;  we  are  good  friends.  It 
has  never  gone  back  on  me  in  all  my  life  when  I  have  ap 
proached  it  in  the  spirit  of  reverent  appeal.  There's 
something  besides  brandy,  though,  that  has  strengthened 
me  to-day." 

"  Ye  feel  like  this  'ere  operation  was  goin'  to  be  the 
bigges'  thing  ye've  ever  done,  I  reckon/'  said  Sam,  who 
had  heard  the  doctor  say  as  much. 

"  The  biggest  thing.  The  climax.  The  ne  phis  ultra. 
My  raison  d'etre.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

The  doctor  seated  himself  in  the  arm-chair  facing  the 
table.  His  instruments  were  spread  orderly  before  him 
upon  a  white  cotton  cloth  ;  at  the  back  of  the  table  stood 
several  bottles  with  such  significant  labels  as  chloroform, 
ammonia,  morphia,  brandy.  A  row  of  half  a  dozen  scal 
pels —  rough -hafted,  so  that  the  hand  of  the  operator 
would  not  be  likely  to  slip,  in  spite  of  blood — caught  the 
sunshine  along  their  edges  in  keen  flashes.  There  were 
bistouries,  too,  closed  in  their  handles  like  pocket-knives 
or  only  partly  open,  as  if  their  owner  intended  them  not 
for  use  but  for  company  to  the  others.  Needles,  saws, 
probes,  directors,  forceps,  and  other  ghastly  implements 
of  the  profession  were  scattered  about  for  the  doctor's 
gloating  contemplation — possibly  for  the  gratification  of 
a  desire  for  completeness  and  detail  which  he  was  known 
to  possess  in  professional  matters.  The  sunshine  flashing 
from  them  back  to  the  ceiling  made  a  tremulous  glimmer 
up  there  as  if  reflected  from  unquiet  water.  Sam's  razor, 
newly  sharpened,  had  an  important  look  among  the  other 
instruments,  opened  from  its  haft  at  an  angle.  Besides 


330 


these  things  there  were  bandages,  sponges,  a  basin  of 
water,  and  several  towels. 

"It  makes  me  feel  young  again,"  said  the  doctor,  sud 
denly  removing  his  eyes  from  the  instruments  to  Sam's 
face.  "  It  makes  the  blood  flow,  the  pulse  beat,  the  mus 
cles  stiffen  !  It  gives  me  the  spring,  the  poise,  the  zest  of 
other  days.  And  you,  Sam — why,  you  look  old  and  anx 
ious  ;  you  actually  do  !  Are  you  frightened  ?  Look  at 
you  !  You  are  as  nervous  as  I  ordinarily  am — you  can 
neither  stand  still  nor  sit  down.  If  the  sight  of  blood 
makes  you  faint — " 

"  It  don't/'  was  the  positive  answer.  "  I  never  felt 
faint  in  all  my  life." 

"You  never  saw  the  blood  of  your  sweetheart — your 
wife/'  suggested  the  doctor. 

"  Oh,  don't  worry  'bout  me.  I'll  be  all  right,"  Sam  de 
clared.  Then,  to  change  the  subject :  "  I  reckon  ye  'ain't 
fergot  nothin'  ?  It  'ud  be  awk'ard  to  have  to  go  V  hunt 
fer  anything  arter  ye  got  fairly  under  way." 

"  Forget  ?  No.  I  haven't  had  anything  for  weeks  to 
think  of  but  this  hour — I've  planned  for  it,  hoped  for  it, 
lived  for  it  I've  arranged  that  table  a  hundred  times  in 
my  thoughts — the  scalpels  here,  the  bottles  there,  every 
thing  just  as  you  see  it.  I've  dreamed  of  it  at  night — felt 
the  tightened  skin  under  my  fingers,  seen  the  first  drop 
of  blood  follow  the  knife,  cut  lengthwise  of  the  muscles 
where  I  could — and  awakened  to  live  it  all  over  again  in 
the  dark,  but  rearranging  everything  by  an  inward  light 
of  my  own.  Forget  anything  ?  No,  no  !" 

He  pushed  a  saw  aside,  and  it  came  in  contact  with  an 
other  of  its  kind  with  a  soft  clash. 

"Of  course,  I  sha'n't  use  all  these  things — you  under 
stand  that.  But  I  wanted  them  in  sight  as  a  sort  of  in 
spiration.  Oh,  I  sha'n't  try  to  make  the  operation  hard — 
I  sha'n't  keep  on  cutting  after  I've  finished,  just  for  the 
joy  of  cutting.  I  have  distinctly  in  mind  what  I  must  do, 


337 


and  I  shaVt  try  any  flourishes.  Desault  says  that  the 
simplicity  of  an  operation  is  the  measure  of  its  perfection, 
and  mine  will  be  quite  perfect  —  quite  perfect.  Is  —  is 
Mrs.  Tinker  as  quiet  in  her  mind  as  she  was  two  hours 
ago  ?» 

It  was  the  first  time  any  one  had  called  Anny  by  that 
name,  and  Sam  noticed,  though  he  was  too  full  of  other 
thoughts  to  speak  of  it. 

"  Jes'  's  quiet,"  he  answered. 

"And  you  haven't  told  her  the  hour  ?" 

"  Not  a  word.  Ye  said  'twouldn't  be  best  till  jes'  afore 
she  was  led  in." 

"You'd  make  an  excellent  surgeon's  assistant,  Sam — 
though  possibly  a  better  soldier.  She  keeps  up  wonder 
fully.  If  she  were  in  her  right  mind  she'd  be  a  hundred 
times  as  nervous — Lord  !  you  ought  to  see  some  of  them 
in  the  hospitals.  Are  you  afraid  I'll  fail  at  the  last  mo 
ment,  Sam  ?  Tell  me  the  truth — are  you  afraid  I'll  fail?" 

Sam  looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot. 

"No,"  he  answered,  deliberately. 

"  Good  !  You  have  grounds  for  your  confidence.  I  shall 
succeed — but — but  there's  something  beyond  that  I  can't 
make  out.  Queer,  isn't  it,  how  everything  in  my  life, 
even  my  gift  of  mind-reading,  has  amounted  to  nothing  ? 
I  used  to  despise  it  as  something  beneath  my  profession — 
a  trait  that  would  stamp  me  as  a  charlatan.  Well,  it's 
a  fatality.  You  see  how  it  turned  out  here  when  I  tried 
to  use  it  for  your  good — or  no,  you  don't  know.  But  it 
was  by  that  means  I  brought  the  missus  to  give  her  con 
sent  to  this  business — no,  I  sha'n't  tell  you  further,  for  I 
gave  her  my  word.  But  you  neutralized  my  efforts  by 
marrying  the  girl — it's  the  way  everything  goes."  He 
took  out  his  watch,  looked  at  it,  and  restored  it  to  his 
pocket.  "  Fifteen  minutes  yet."  There  was  a  flush  on 
his  face  that  made  his  cheeks  look  fuller  and  younger. 
"Jove  !  This  is  glorious."  He  began  to  pace  slowly  up 

22 


338 


and  down,  his  feet  meeting  the  floor  in  a  firm,  steady 
tramp.  "Why  isn't  it  something  more  difficult?"  He 
poured  out  some  brandy  into  a  glass,  regulating  the 
quantity  by  a  scale  on  the  side.  "  I  tell  you,  I  could  cut 
a  human  heart  in  this  mood,  and  restore  it  in  perfect 
condition  !" 

Sam  shuddered.  He  had  never  before  witnessed  an 
outburst  of  such  professional  fury. 

"  Ye'll  make  it  go,"  he  said,  thinking  of  the  outcome 
of  the  operation. 

The  doctor  fetched  a  breath  as  from  the  bottom  of  his 
lungs. 

"I  haven't  breathed  like  that  before  for  four  years," 
he  declared.  His  eyes  burned  into  Sam's.  "Oh!  It 
couldn't  be  that  I  am  to  get  well  again  ?"  Then,  as  the 
absurdity  of  his  question  dawned  upon  him,  he  fetched 
another  breath  deeper  than  the  first  and  laughed.  "At 
least,  I  know  what  it  is  to  feel  well  once  more  before  I 
die  !" 

He  shifted  one  or  two  of  his  instruments  into  more 
symmetrical  order  on  the  table,  and  their  glittering  re 
flections  followed  the  changed  position  on  the  ceiling. 

"The  light  is  perfect,"  he  declared.  "  These  windows 
couldn't  be  better  if  they  had  been  made  on  purpose." 
He  glanced  at  his  watch,  smiled,  and  nodded  at  Sam. 
"You  may  bring  her  in.  It  is  time."  There  was  some 
thing  beautiful,  dignified,  and  noble  in  his  aspect.  Sam 
was  almost  awed. 

The  doctor  stopped  him  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  See  that  her  clothing  is  loose  about  her  throat  and 
waist,"  he  said.  "And  don't  look  frightened,  even  if 
you  feel  so." 

In  a  few  moments  Anny  came  in,  followed  by  Sam. 
She  was  a  little  pale,  but  there  were  no  signs  of  undue 
excitement  in  her  eyes.  Her  hair  was  loosened,  and  hung 
in  pretty  shining  masses  all  about  her  neck  and  shoulders. 


339 


As  her  eyes  met  the  doctor's  she  smiled. 

"No,  I  ain't  skeert,"  she  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  ques 
tion.  "  Why  should  I  be  ?  It  '11  all  come  right." 

"  Good  !"  said  the  doctor,  standing  erect  by  the  table. 
"You'll  do  nicely.  It's  half  in  the  spirit  in  which  one 
approaches  these  things.  Sam,  tell  the  missus  we're  ready. 
She  wanted  to  wait  outside  the  door,  and  I  thought  it  wise 
that  she  should.  We  may  need  her." 

Sam  was  gone  but  a  moment,  and,  returning,  closed  the 
door. 

"  She's  there,"  he  announced,  in  a  faint  voice. 

The  doctor  nodded  approval. 

"  Lie  down,"  he  said  to  Anny.  And,  as  the  girl  obeyed  : 
"A  little  farther  this  way — the  shadow  of  the  head-board 
falls  on  that  side.  There,  that  is  better.  The  light  is 
all  that  one  could  wish.  Now  !" 

He  took  a  towel,  squeezed  it  together,  poured  some 
chloroform  over  it,  loosened  it  a  little  in  his  hand,  then 
held  it  near  the  patient's  nose. 

"  She  takes  it  beautifully,"  he  nodded  to  Sam.  "Some 
times  they  struggle.  Evidently  her  heart  is  in  good  con 
dition." 

When  the  patient  was  asleep  and  breathing  satisfacto 
rily,  the  doctor,  after  an  instant's  manipulation  —  Sam 
could  not  help  noticing  the  quickness  and  lightness  of 
his  touch — began  to  cut  away  the  hair  close  to  the  scalp. 
Sam  understood,  and  had  his  razor  ready;  and  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it  a  good-sized  portion  of  the 
skin  showed  white  arid  smooth. 

The  doctor  uttered  not  a  word,  and  there  was  some 
thing  awful  in  the  firmness  and  poise  of  his  movements. 
He  stretched  the  shaven  scalp  carefully  with  his  left  hand 
by  the  opposing  pressure  and  pull  of  two  fingers,  and 
Sam  saw  the  flesh  grow  whiter  as  the  blood  underneath 
was  forced  out  of  the  sphere  of  manipulation.  The 
knives  were  within  reach  ;  the  doctor  selected  one,  and  in 


340 

the  act  his  eyes  looked  lightning.  He  brought  the  instru 
ment  into  position  and  bent  over,  taking  care  to  keep  his 
hand  out  of  the  light.  Sam  found  himself  catching  his 
breath  and  letting  it  go  with  a  faintly  audible  shudder. 
Would  he  cry  out  when  the  knife  touched  the  flesh  and 
brought  the  blood  ? 

He  followed  every  movement  with  the  fascination  of 
expectant  horror.  The  doctor's  eyes  revealed  the  light 
and  heat  in  him  as  do  the  doors  of  a  furnace  suddenly 
opened.  The  knife  descended  with  a  tentative  direct 
ness,  making  towards  the  desired  point  as  by  the  homing 
instinct  of  a  bird.  It  felt  its  way  before  it  cut — not  un 
certainly,  but  cautiously ;  it  seemed  to  be  taking  a  long 
look  ahead.  Presently  it  found  what  it  wanted — found 
it  and  touched  it  with  the  deliberation  of  a  living  soul 
determined  to  make  sure.  It  was  beautiful  but  terrible 
— a  knife  acting  as  if  it  possessed  a  mind  and  nervous 
system  of  its  own,  and  were  following  out  a  line  of  in 
telligent  action  which  it  had  learned  through  experience. 
Sam  watched  with  a  feeling  of  growing  sickness — a  sense 
of  sinking,  expanding,  evaporating.  His  stomach  seemed 
to  turn  over,  as  if  a  slow  wave  had  rolled  under  it.  There 
was  a  big  oblong  link  of  ghastly  white  around  his  mouth. 
His  lips  were  dry  and  bloodless. 

The  knife  drew  itself  deliberately  to  the  left  along  a 
line  which  might  have  been  made  by  a  ruler ;  it  gave  out 
a  softly  rasping  sound,  as  if  a  thumb-nail  had  been  drawn 
across  planed  pine.  Blood  followed,  oozing  up  in  a  raised 
line  and  lying  there  like  a  wet  scarlet  thread.  Sam 
opened  his  mouth  to  cry  out,  shut  it,  and  opened  it 
again. 

"  I  can't  stan*  this,  Doc,"  he  gasped,  in  a  stifled  voice. 

The  doctor  paused  without  looking  up.  But  his  feat 
ures  were  all  visible.  Even  with  that  dreadful  faintness 
heaving  through  him,  Sam  was  awed  by  the  beauty  and 
terror  of  the  strange  man's  eyes. 


341 


"Go  to  the  farther  window,  out  of  the  light,"  said  he, 
intent  upon  his  work.  "  I'll  call  if  I  need  you." 

Sam  obeyed  with  difficulty,  his  knees  manifesting  a 
jack-knife  propensity  to  double  up.  He  leaned  against 
the  window-frame,  for  the  moment  unconscious  of  every 
thing  but'the  horrible  uncertainty  of  semi-consciousness. 
He  could  not  have  raised  the  sash  to  save  his  life — he 
was  as  weak  as  a  baby.  His  lungs  struggled  as  if  under 
a  weight;  his  stomach  heaved  and  rolled;  his  nostrils 
contracted  and  shut  out  his  breath  ;  his  throat  was  too 
small ;  his  tongue  and  palate  were  in  the  way. 

But  presently  the  faintness  began  to  pass.  He  flung 
up  the  window  and  took  in  great  gulps  of  air.  There 
were  queer  sounds  all  about  —  sounds  which  his  own 
mind  made  and  echoed.  The  pines  had  little  shadows 
close  about  them  like  puddles  of  black  liquid ;  the  shal 
lows  of  the  river  looked  as  if  whitened  by  a  wind  that 
struck  them  vertically ;  there  was  a  pale  level  cloud 
above  the  mountains,  and  the  blue  heaven  faded  into  it 
as  a  sunny  sky  merges  into  a  sunny  sea. 

The  memory  of  what  was  taking  place  behind  him  re 
turned,  and  he  began  to  wonder  how  the  operation  had 
progressed.  Should  he  turn  and  see  ?  Not  yet  !  Any 
thing  but  a  recurrence  of  that  horrid,  aimless,  unplace- 
able  disturbance  of  the  very  source  of  life  ;  he  felt  certain 
that  he  could  never  live  through  another  such  qualm. 

"If  I  only  had  some  water/'  he  thought.  "Could  I 
git  to  the  table  backwards,  I  wonder,  'n'  git  a  drink  out  o> 
the  basin  ?  No  ;  I  might  cut  myself  fumblin'  aroun' 
amongst  them  knives.  Oh,  I'm  better.  I'll  do  perfeckly 
well  now.  Wot  a  bright  day  'tis,  V  how  the  dogs  chase 
each  other  up  'n'  down  the  river-bank  !  Where  do  they 
git  the  breath  to  do  it  with,  I  wonder  ?" 

But  suddenly  he  was  brought  to  his  senses  by  a  cry — a 
hideous,  animal  cry,  full  of  nightmare  effort,  part  bellow, 
part  bark,  part  shriek.  He  turned  with  a  leap  and  saw 


342 


Anny  half  erect  on  the  bed,  her  eyes  open,  sightless  and 
staring,  her  month  drawn  and  tense,  her  throat  corrugated 
by  the  strain  of  that  frightful  effort  of  pain.  The  doctor 
stood  over  her,  knife  in  hand,  his  body  slanting  backward, 
as  if  that  inhuman  sound  had  given  him  a  push.  Even 
as  Sam  looked  the  rigidity  of  Anny's  figure  relaxed,  she 
wavered,  sank  back  ;  her  jaw  dropped,  as  he  had  seen  in 
the  case  of  people  dying.  A  change  came  into  the  doc 
tor's  attitude,  too  ;  the  knife  fell  from  his  hand  to  the 
table,  where  it  clashed  edge  against  edge  with  the  other 
instruments  ;  then  he  staggered  back  into  his  arm-chair 
and  lay  there  with  closed  eyes. 

"I've  killed  or  cured  her!"  Sam  heard  him  mutter. 
"  Killed  or  cured  her,  by  God  !" 


CHAPTER  XL 

PHCEBE  ELLEN  came  in  with  a  rush.  Her  eyes  met 
Sam's  in  a  question  which  he  did  not  try  to  answer. 

"Look  arter  the  doctor/'  was  all  the  explanation  he 
had  time  to  give.  "I'll  'tend  to  her." 

He  applied  all  the  restoratives  at  hand — water,  brandy, 
ammonia  ;  he  rubbed  her  wrists,  chafed  her  temples  ;  he 
lowered  her  head  over  the  side  of  the  bed,  holding  it  so 
that  the  weight  would  not  wrench  the  muscles  of  the  neck. 
His  eyes  were  too  intent  on  the  pale,  unconscious  face  to 
notice  definitely  what  Phoebe  Ellen  was  doing,  but  he  knew 
that  she  was  applying  the  same  restoratives  that  he  had 
used,  and  in  the  same  way.  Presently  he  was  gratified  to 
see  that  his  patient  began  to  breathe  again.  But  her  eyes 
did  not  unclose,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  consciousness. 

He  laid  her  head  gently  back  upon  the  pillow.  The 
wound  in  the  scalp  was  still  bleeding  with  a  slow  persist 
ence  that  made  him  shiver.  He  spunged  it  off — it  looked 
horribly  deep  after  the  blood  was  washed  away — drew  the 
edges  of  the  flap  together,  pressed  them  firmly  down,  and 
applied  a  bandage.  Then  for  a  moment  he  stood  off  to 
contemplate  his  work. 

"Sam,"  he  heard  the  doctor  call,  faintly,  behind  him. 

For  answer  he  approached  the  chair.  He  thought  he 
detected  a  ghastly  humor  in  the  drawn  mouth  and  fading 
eyes. 

"You — you  see  ?"  the  stricken  man  articulated,  in  a 
voice  that  rattled  in  his  throat.  "I  knew — I  wouldn't 
live — to  see  how  it  turned  out."  He  lifted  his  dim,  fatal 
eyes.  "  It's  God's  fault — not  mine,"  he  whispered. 


344 

And  with  those  words  he  died. 

"  Call  Leather-head,"  said  Sam.  "  Let  'em  kerry  'im  to 
my  room.  I'll  stay  "ere  with  the  little  un." 

Sam  never  once  left  his  wife's  side  during  the  next  two 
days.  He  did  not  even  attend  the  doctor's  funeral,  but 
remained  at  the  window,  with  one  eye  on  the  bed,  so  to 
speak,  and  the  other  fixed  upon  the  mournful  group  on 
the  mountain-side,  standing  uncovered  in  the  clear  au 
tumn  sunshine  as  old  man  Halstead  read  the  service  for 
the  dead. 

"  Dan  '11  be  glad  to  have  'im  layin'  there  beside  'im," 
Sam  thought  as  he  turned  to  the  bedside  once  more.  "He 
done  his  best  fer  the  little  un,  however  it  turns  out,  'n' 
Dan  '11  know." 

And  he  sat  down  at  the  head  of  the  bed  to  watch. 

"  It's  jes'  like  the  sleep  she  fell  into  arter  the  accident," 
he  thought  for  the  hundredth  time.  "  How  '11  she  wake 
from  it,  I  wonder  ?  Better  or  wuss,  or  jes'  the  same  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen  came  in  from  the  funeral  with  her  hat  on. 

"  'Pears  like  she's  breathin'  stronger,"  she  said,  after  a 
a  momentary  examination.  "  Had  ye  noticed  ?" 

"  I  thort  so  myself,"  was  Sam's  reply. 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  sat  down  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  bed.  She  appeared  worn  and  anxious  ;  but  there 
were  determination  and  prospective  triumph  in  the  hard 
curve  of  her  mouth. 

"  She's  gittin'  to  look  older,"  thought  Sam,  giving  her  a 
long,  examining  glance.  "'N'  wickeder.  She  wa'n't  like 
that  when  she  fust  come.  Wot's  she  thinkin'  of,  I  won 
der  ?" 

"Doc  Sedgwick  's  dead,"  was  the  thought  that  had 
given  expression  to  Phoebe  Ellen's  face  and  occasioned 
Sam's  curiosity.  "He  died  'thout  tellin'  wot  he  knowed 
— he  kep'  his  word,'  spite  o'  knowin'  how  I  hated  'im.  'N' 
now  I  got  to  fight  it  out  atween  these  two.  Sam  never 


345 

leaves  'er,  not  even  to  take  a  breath  o'  air.  He's  more  dan- 
g'rous  'n.  wot  she'll  be,,  even  if  she  comes  to  in  'er  right 
mind." 

She  bent  over  the  bed  and  lifted  the  hand  of  the  sleeper 
as  if  to  feel  the  pulse. 

"  She's  wakin',"  said  Sam,  suddenly,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

The  invalid  had  half  opened  her  eyes,  and  the  lids  were 
quivering  with  a  premonition  of  complete  expansion. 
Phoebe  Ellen  bent  lower.  The  movement  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  awakening  girl,  and  the  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  down-bent  face  with  an  expression  of  half  recognition. 
This  steady  gaze  continued  for  a  full  moment. 

"  Sis  !"  cried  the  sick  girl,  suddenly — "  sis,  where's  my 
posies  ?" 

It  was  the  voice  Sam  remembered  to  have  heard  before 
the  accident — the  pretty,  drawling  voice  which  he  had 
thought  of  so  often  since  with  regret — but  with  an  accent 
of  haste  and  fear  in  its  utterance. 

"Where's  my  posies  ?"  she  repeated,  in  a  high  key. 

Sam's  hopes  fell  as  quickly  as  they  had  risen.  Had  she 
awakened  with  her  old  voice,  her  old  look,  but  in  a  new 
state  of  delirium  ?  Phoebe  Ellen's  heart  was  beating  high 
with  the  same  thought.  She  did  not  dare  to  look  into 
his  eyes  lest  he  should  read  the  wicked  triumph  in  her 
own. 

"  She's  crazy  !"  she  whispered.  "  She  's  woke  up  's 
crazy  's  wot  she  was  afore,  only  dif'rent !" 

"  My  posies,  my  posies  !"  repeated  the  invalid,  impa 
tiently.  "Wot  have  I  done  with  my  posies  ?  If  ye've 
took  'em  'n.'  hid  'em,  bring  'em  back  !" 

Suddenly  Sam's  heart  gave  a  great  jubilant  leap. 

"She  was  gatherin'  posies  fer  Dan's  grave  when  the 
lan'slide  overtook  'er  !"  he  cried  out.  "  She's  took  up 
'er  life  jes'  where  she  left  it  off  that  day — thank  God  !" 

And  he  fell  on  his  knees  by  the  bed  and  buried  his  face 
in  the  covering. 


346 

Army  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  with  a  sort  of  cold  won 
der. 

"Oh,  I  know/'  she  said,  in  a  quieter  voice  than  she  had 
used  before,  and  therein  the  old  tone  and  inflection  came 
out  fully.  "  Ye're  Sam — the  man  wot  come  to  the  depot 
fer  us." 

"Yes — yes  !"  he  answered,  lifting  his  face  eagerly. 

A  slow  flush  overspread  her  features  and  she  turned  her 
head  away. 

"Wot  be  I  doin'  'ere  —  in  bed  —  with  Mm  aroun'  ?" 
Her  eyes  met  her  sister's.  "Take  me  away,  sis  —  wot 
does  it  mean  ?" 

Phoebe  Ellen's  face  had  hardened  as  the  assurance  of 
her  sister's  recovery  became  plain.  But  she  did  not  lose 
her  self-control. 

"Hush!"  she  said,  as  gently  as  she  could.  "Ye've 
been  sick  fer  ever  so  long — ye'll  know  all  'bout  it  by-'n'- 
by!" 

The  invalid  stirred  restlessly. 

"  But  why  not  now — why  not  now  ?  I'm  well,  ain't  I  ? 
Tell  me  'bout  it — I  want  to  hear  !" 

"Lay  still  V  rest,"  said  Phoebe  Ellen,  soothingly. 

There  was  danger  now  that  at  any  moment  the  truth 
about  the  ownership  of  the  ranch  might  come  out,  and 
such  a  revelation  must  never  be  made,  cost  what  it  might. 
"  'Ud  it  do  any  harm  to  give  'er  a  drop  or  two  o'  that 
morphine,  Sam  ?  We  don't  want  'er  to  git  excited — it 
might  spile  the  hull  bizness." 

Sam  considered  a  moment,  then  rose  and  measured  out 
the  proper  amount. 

' '  The  Doc  said  it  was  allus  proper  to  give  morphine 
arter  a  operation,"  he  said.  "'W  he  tole  me  how  much. 
Ye'll  be  stronger  when  ye  wake  up  ag'in,"  he  said  to 
Anny,  as  she  drank  from  the  tumbler  which  he  held  for 
her.  "We'll  tell  ye  all  'bout  it  then.  Ye  mus'  trust  it 
all  to  us  jes'  now  ;  we  know  best." 


347 


"Well,"  said  the  girl,  drinking  obediently.  She  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  his  in  a  long,  studious  gaze.  "  Ye'll  stay 
with  me  while  I  sleep  ?"  she  finally  asked. 

"Shorely—  shorely !" 

"'N'  ye'll  be  ?ere  to  tell  me  when  I  wake  ?  I'd  ruther 
ye'd  tell  me  '11  sis.  See !  She  has  sech  a  queer  look  in 
'er  eyes.  Has  she  been  sick,  too  ?" 

"No,  no,"  soothed  Sam,  without  taking  the  trouble 
to  glance  in  Phoebe  Ellen's  direction.  "  Yer  eyes  see 
crooked  arter  bein'  sick  so  long.  Only  sleep — sleep  !" 

"  Shall  I  stay  with  'er,  too  ?"  asked  Phoebe  Ellen,  after 
the  invalid  was  breathing  quietly. 

"No,  I'll  look  arter  'er,"  was  Sam's  answer.  And  she 
left  the  room  and  went  to  her  chamber.  And  when  she 
came  down  her  eyes  were  burning  strangely,  and  there  was 
something  rolled  up  under  her  apron  which  she  was  try 
ing  to  conceal. 

Sam  remained  at  his  wife's  bedside  for  an  hour  or  more. 
She  was  sleeping  so  sweetly,  so  quietly,  that  he  found  him 
self  growing  drowsy  by  sheer  force  of  example.  There 
was  no  need  to  watch  her  ;  she  would  not  waken  for  two 
or  three  hours  at  least.  Why  should  he  not  go  out  for  a 
little  walk  in  the  sunshine  ?  Judy  had  been  brought 
home,  and  he  could  see  her  out  there  in  the  corral,  look 
ing  wistfully  over  the  logs  as  if  in  search  of  her  master. 
There  were  a  dozen  odd  jobs  that  he  ought  to  attend  to. 
Had  the  boys  raked  down  the  mow  properly,  and  not  scat 
tered  the  hay  all  over  the  barn  in  feeding  the  home  cattle  ? 
Had  Leatherhead  tinned  up  the  rat-holes  into  the  grana 
ry  ?  Had  the  saddle  been  mended  that  he  had  flung  off  in 
that  wild  flight  to  the  station  ?  Were  the  pigs  properly 
"swilled,"  and  had  the  chickens  been  kept  out  of  the 
corn -crib?  Pinky,  in  his  capacity  as  manager  of  the 
ranch,  had  been  looking  after  these  things,  Sam  knew,  but 
his  training  had  not  been  of  the  sort  to  make  his  over 
sight  thorough.  Sam  longed  to  go  and  see  for  himself. 


348 


He  put  on  his  hat  and  stole  quietly  out,  glancing  once 
at  the  unconscious  sleeper  to  make  sure  that  all  was  well. 

"  I'll  be  back  long  afore  she  wakes/"  he  thought,  as  he 
left  the  house  and  started  across  the  open  between  the 
veranda  and  the  barn. 

Phoebe  Ellen  saw  him  from  the  kitchen  window,  and 
went  at  once  to  the  stove,  where  she  bent  diligently  over 
something  that  was  stewing  in  a  basin. 

"  Suthin'  fer  the  little  un  ?"  asked  Pinky,  who  was  read 
ing  a  week-old  newspaper  by  the  window. 

She  bent  lower  over  the  stove. 

"  A  kind  o'  a  tonic  the  Doc  ordered  fer  'er  afore  he 
died,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh,"  said  Pinky,  reading  on. 

Sam  had  completed  his  tour  of  inspection  about  the 
ba.rn,  and  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  the  house — he 
had  stopped  a  moment  at  the  corral  to  scratch  Judy's 
out-thrust  nose — when  he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
hurrying  footsteps  behind  him,  and  Leatherhead's  voice 
rising  in  a  falsetto  screech. 

"Fer  God's  sake,  hear  'er  !  Don't  ye  hear?  Come 
quick  !  The  little  un  's  woke  up  clean  crazy,  V  's  bangin' 
'er  head  agin  the  wall !  Pinky's  gone  to  the  upper  corral 
— he  tole  me  the  missus  'd  sent  'im  fer  suthin' — V  they 
ain't  nobody  'ere  but  you.  Hear  'er  yell  ?  That's  her  ! 
The  missus  says  it's  the  operation,  V  she  allus  knowed 
wot  'ud  come  o'  it.  She's  with  'er  now.  'N'  ye'd  better 
hurry  if  ye  want  to  see  'er  alive  !" 

Sam  arranged  the  roustabout's  pronouns  as  best  he 
could,  and  started  for  the  house  on  a  run.  In  the  cham 
ber  where  he  had  left  his  wife  asleep,  an  awful  sight  met 
his  gaze — a  sight  which  made  him  sick  and  faint  and  long 
to  run  away. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

was  flinging  herself  from  one  end  of  the  room 
to  the  other  like  a  mad  thing.  Her  countenance  had  lost 
all  semblance  to  that  of  a  human  being ;  her  features  were 
drawn  close  together  in  the  middle  of  her  face,  where  they 
quivered  and  shook  with  a  beastly  passion.  Her  teeth 
showed;  she  had  bitten  her  lips,  and  the  blood  was  run 
ning  down  into  her  bosom.  Her  breath  sounded  shrill 
and  irregular,  inhaled  by  jerks  and  expelled  in  puffs  and 
gasps,  but  preserving  through  all  a  sound  of  irrational 
animal  fury.  Her  eyes  had  the  peculiar  bulging,  rolling 
glare  of  an  enraged  buffalo  ;  a  red  light  came  from  them 
when  turned  at  certain  angles. 

Phoebe  Ellen  was  cowering  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
her  teeth  chattering. 

"I  knowed  how 'twould  be  from  the  fust,"  she  gasped, 
coming  closer  to  Sam.  "Doc  Sedgwick  didn't  know  wot 
he  was  doin',  V  this  is  Avot  comes  o'  puttiii'  a  knife  in 
his  hand.  Look  at  7er,  'n'  lay  the  blame  where  it  b'longs." 
Her  voice  had  grown  steadier  as  Sam's  presence  gave  her 
assurance  of  her  personal  safety,  "/never  cornsented — 
ye  know  I  never  did.  She'd  better  V  stayed  like  she  was, 
/  say,  'n  to  have  to  pass  the  rest  o'  her  life  like  this." 

Sam  gave  no  sign  of  hearing.  He  approached  the  rav 
ing  woman  and  took  her  by  the  arm. 

"Hush  !"  he  cried,  authoritatively.  "Hush,  I  tell  ye, 
'n'  go  to  the  bed  'n'  lay  down." 

He  tried  to  lead  her,  but  she  struck  at  him  with  her 
free  arm  and  he  was  obliged  to  desist. 

"She'll  die— she'll  die  !"  cried  Phoebe  Ellen,  forgetting 


350 

her  own  share  in  this  terrible  business  and  thinking  only 
of  the  deadly  horror  of  it. 

Sam  was  about  to  lay  hands  on  the  raving  woman  again 
and  try  to  pinion  her  arms — he  could  think  of  no  other 
means  of  restraining  the  mad  creature  and  keeping  her 
from  taking  her  own  life — when  he  was  arrested  by  the 
sight  of  Leatherhead's  round,  pimpled  face,  its  senseless 
surprise  all  changed  to  terror  now,  peering  in  at  him 
through  the  half-open  door. 

"  Git  a  rope  !"  cried  Phoebe  Ellen  at  this  moment. 
"Anything — only  don't  let  this  dretful  thing  go  on.  I 
shall  be  mad  myself  in  another  five  minutes  jes'  to  see 
it!" 

"JL1  ye  stay  with  'er  while  I  go  ?"  asked  Sam. 

"No  !  I  know  where  they's  one  out  to  the  barn,"'  she 
answered,  and  she  sped  past  Leatherhead  without  seeing 
him  and  disappeared. 

"Sam  !"  said  the  roustabout,  in  a  low  voice. 

Sam's  eyes,  by  a  horrid  fascination,  had  returned  to  the 
raving  woman,  but  he  now  faced  the  door. 

"I've  got  suthin'  to  say  'bout  this  'ere  bizness,"  said  the 
roustabout,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  fright  and  resolution. 

He  drew  from  the  side  pocket  of  his  jacket  a  dried  leaf 
of  peculiar  shape. 

"Look  at  that !"  he  said,  handing  it  to  Sam.  "Look 
at  it  's  clost  's  wot  ye  ever  looked  at  anything  in  all  yer 
life.  'N'  then  tell  me  wot  'tis." 

Sam  examined  the  leaf  carefully.  Then  his  eyes  met 
Leatherhead's  with  a  slow,  inquiring  horror  in  them. 

"It  looks  like—" 

But  Leatherhead  took  up  the  word  with  eager  triumph. 

"  Loco.  It  looks  like  loco,  V  'tis  loco.  I  come  into 
the  kitchen  'bout  ten  minutes  arter  ye'd  gone  out  to  the 
barn,  'n'  there  was  the  missus  bend  in'  over  the  stove 
a-lookiir  down  at  suthin'  wot  was  a-bilin'  in  a  basin.  '  It's 
suthin'  fer  sis,'  she  says.  'It's  to  tone 'er  up.  It's  yarb 


351 


tea.'  I  didn't  think  nothin'  more  'bout  it,  fer  it  never 
come  into  my  head  as  we  had  the  devil  'ere  in  the  house, 
though  I  orter  V  been  s'picious  arter  the  way  she  tried  to 
get  red  o'  the  little  un  that  night.  By-'n'-by  the  drink 
was  done.  She'd  sent  Pinky  off  to  the  upper  corral,  so 
they  waVt  nobody  there  but  me  ;  V  she  tuck  V  strained 
it  V  emptied  the  leaves  in  the  fire  V  kerried  the  tea  up 
stairs.  Well,  even  arter  the  pore  little  un  begun  to  rave 
I  didn't  think  nothing  nuther  ;  I  jes'  made  shore  the  Doc 
'd  cut  too  deep,  or  suthin' ;  but  arter  I'd  called  ye  'n'  ye'd 
gone  up-stairs  I  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  'n'  there  I  found 
this  'ere  leaf  on  the  floor  'n'  picked  it  up,  thinkin'  the  wind 
'd  blowed  it  in  from  outside  ;  'n'  I  Avas  goin'  to  throw  it 
into  the  wood-box  when  all  to  wunst  I  seen  wot  'twas.  I 
swear,  ye  could  V  knocked  me  over  with  a  feather,  ye 
could." 

"I'm  glad  Pinky  didn't  have  no  hand  in  it/'  said  Sam, 
in  a  voice  that  hoarsened  and  broke  in  his  throat. 

"I  don't  b'lieve  he  did  —  I  swear  I  don't.  It's  all  'er 
own  work,  the  she-devil  !  I  could  take  my  oath  to  it. 
'N'  arter  the  way  I've  stood  by  'er  V  waited  on  'er  !  She 
knowed  'bout  the  Doc's  haviir  a  lot  o'  that  weed  dried  'n' 
spread  out  up  garret  las'  fall ;  'n'  she  tuck  some  out  'n'  hid 
it  away  in  case  she  might  need  it.  Lord  !  I  never  seen 
nothin'  clearer  in  all  my  life.  Ain't  it  plain  ?" 

"  Come  into  the  room  'ere  with  me,"  was  Sam's  answer. 
"Has  Pinky  come  back  ?  No  ?  I'd  like  'im  to  know  the 
kind  o'  wife  he's  got,  but  that  '11  keep.  Come  !  It  ain't 
's  bad  's  wot  it  might  be— that  is,  if  Doc  Sedgwick's 
word's  good  fer  anything.  Ye  won't  be  afeerd  to  help  me 
hold  'er  while  I  give  'er  some  med'cine,  will  ye  ?" 

At  this  moment  Phoebe  Ellen  entered,  breathless,  with 
the  rope. 

"We  won't  need  it,"  said  Sam,  quietly.  "I've  found 
out  wot's  the  matter — " 

In  her  excitement  and  horror  she  had   forgotten  what 


352 


was  the  matter  herself,  and  the  knowledge  came  back  to 
her  now  like  a  blow  on  the  head.  She  started  to  speak, 
but— 

"  Keep  still !"  commanded  Sam,  and  she  shrank  back 
in  scared  obedience. 

He  went  to  the  row  of  bottles  on  the  table  which  had 
remained  undisturbed  since  the  doctor's  death— undis 
turbed  not  by  design,  but  by  the  accident  of  that  unwill 
ingness  which  all  men  feel  for  disarranging  the  posses 
sions  of  the  dead  —  and  selected  one.  Phoebe  Ellen's 
features  relaxed  into  a  heavy  surprise  which  quivered  into 
curiosity  in  her  mouth  and  eyebrows.  Sam  remembered 
the  bottle  well.  "  Three  drops  in  half  a  tumbler  of  water 
will  do  the  business  in  half  an  hour,"  the  doctor  had  said. 
Sam  had  looked  and  listened  too  attentively  to  forget. 

"  Bring  me  half  a  tumbler  of  water,"  he  said  to  Leather- 
head. 

"Wot — wot  is  it  ?"  stammered  Phoebe  Ellen,  moving 
forward,  and  half  forgetting  the  woman  who  was  raging 
back  and  forth  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Wait  V  see,"  was  Sam's  answer,  delivered  with  a 
smile  as  enigmatic  as  the  doctor's  own. 

In  a  moment  Leatherhead  returned  with  the  glass  and 
water.  Sam  poured  out  the  prescribed  medicine  with  the 
care  of  one  who  has  life  and  death  in  his  hands.  Then 
he  said  to  Leatherhead  : 

"  We  must  hold  'er — leastways  fer  a  minute  or  two — 
till  I  make  'er  drink  the  stuff.  D'  ye  reckon  ye  kin  man 
age  'er  left  arm  ?" 

"I  kin  try,"  responded  Leatherhead,  with  tremulous 
bravery. 

"  Then  I'll  'tend  to  the  rest,'"  said  Sam. 

The  raving  woman  seemed  altogether  unconscious  of 
them  even  after  they  had  seized  her,  except  as  an  oppos 
ing  force  which,  for  all  she  knew,  might  have  been  the 
wall.  They  grasped  her  firmly  on  either  side,  and,  in  spite 


353 

of  her  shrieks  and  struggles,  bore  her  to  the  table  where 
the  tumbler  of  medicine  stood.  She  had  already  greatly 
exhausted  herself,  and  between  the  two  men  she  was  pas 
sive  as  if  in  a  clamp.  Sam  took  the  tumbler  and  held  it 
to  her  lips. 

"  Drink  I"  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice.     "  Drink  !" 

The  words  forced  themselves  into  her  mind  without 
rousing  it,  but  they  must  have  awakened  at  least  some 
mechanical  habit  of  obedience,  some  reflex  nervous  train, 
for  she  drank  as  he  commanded,  gazing  at  the  ceiling  with 
heavy,  unseeing  eyes.  The  glass  being  emptied,  Sam 
thought  best  to  let  her  loose  again,  for  he  knew  not  at 
what  moment  her  ravings  might  recommence,  and  in  her 
present  state  he  dreaded  less  the  effect  of  liberty  than 
coercion.  She  tottered  a  few  steps,  groaning  and  crying 
and  flinging  out  her  arms  ;  but  she  was  weak  with  the 
dreadful  strain  of  her  former  ravings,  and  either  as  a 
result  of  that  or  of  the  medicine  she  presently  fell  in  a 
shapeless  heap  upon  the  floor. 

She  lay  quite  still,  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional 
moan,  as  if  the  tortured  soul  were  still  tossed  on  the 
ground-swell  of  its  fury.  Sam  lifted  her  very  tenderly 
and  placed  her  on  the  bed,  and  she  made  no  resistance. 
Phoebe  Ellen  stood  in  the  background  watching  these 
proceedings  with  mingled  feelings.  She  was  one  of  those 
hard,  unyielding  natures  to  whom  consequences  seldom 
bring  remorse,  and  she  felt  only  a  sort  of  mental  nausea 
for  what  she  had  done.  She  had  never  imagined  the 
dreadful  details  of  the  action  of  that  drug,  and  she  was 
almost  willing  for  the  moment  to  take  the  consequences 
of  her  sister's  recovery  if  only  for  the  sake  of  being  re 
lieved  of  the  sight  of  her  torment. 

Presently  Army's  groans  ceased  altogether,  and  she  be 
gan  to  talk.  Not  coherently,  but  the  very  disconnection 
of  her  words  was  hopeful  as  contrasted  with  her  former 
inarticulate  cries,  indicating  as  it  did  an  approach  to  hu- 

23 


354 


man  consciousness.  She  imagined  strange  things,  was 
subject  to  strange  illusions  of  sight  and  sound.  There 
were  inverted  rivers  flowing  over  her,  and  the  sky  was 
below ;  the  bedposts  were  all  talking  together,  and  that 
made  her  nervous  ;  there  were  shooting-stars  in  the  room, 
and  the  walls  kept  falling  in  and  then  straightening  them 
selves.  Sam  watched  her  through  all  this  with  a  fierce, 
anxious  joy. 

At  last  the  girl  lay  quite  still,  breathing  irregularly, 
but  otherwise  exhibiting  no  trace  of  the  horror  through 
which  she  had  passed. 

t '  Wonderful  \"  said  Sam,  aloud.  "  Why  couldn't  the 
Doc  V  lived  to  see  this  ?  It  'ud  V  done  'im  's  much  good 
's  the  operation." 

Phoebe  Ellen  came  close  to  the  bed.  She  had  recovered 
her  composure  to  a  certain  extent,  and  her  tongue  was  up 
to  its  old  tricks. 

"  He  didn't  die  none  too  quick,"  she  cut  in. 

(i  They's  other  folks  aroun'  this  ranch  't  can't  die  too 
quick,  either,"  remarked  Sam,  significantly.  "In  fact, 
they've  been  altogether  too  slow  'bout  it ;  'n'  I  mean  to 
make  a  point  o'  seein'  if  the  law  can't  hurry  'em  up  a  bit." 

And  Phoebe  Ellen  shrank  back  into  silence. 

"  My  posies — my  posies  !"  cried  Anny,  suddenly  opening 
her  eyes.  i '  Who  's  took  my  posies  away  from  me  ?  Tears 
like  I'd  been  wanderin'  all  over  the  world  sence  I  picked 
my  posies."  Sam  was  bending  over  her,  and  his  was  the 
first  face  she  saw.  "  Where  'd  ye  say  the  grave  was  ? 
Under  the  pines  on  the  mountain-side  ?  I  can't  see  it 
from  'ere.  Why,  I'm  in  a  house  !  Whose  is  it  ?  Where's 
sis  ?" 

"She's  'ere,"  said  Sam,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  assurance. 
' :  Come,  he  said  to  Phcebe  Ellen,  in  a  low  voice.  "  The 
least  ye  kin  do  's  to  try  to  keep  'er  calmed  down." 

Phcebe  Ellen  approached  the  bed  and  knelt. 

"  Ye're  better/'  she  said,  in  a  smothered  tone.     "  Ye've 


355 

been  sick  —  ye're  powerful  weak  yit.     But  ye'll  be  well 
afore  long,  now/7 

"  Have  I  been  sick  ?" 

"Dretful  sick.     But  it's  all  right.     Ye  ain't  afeerd  ?" 

"No.     But  Fm  so  weak.     'N'  it  seems  so  queer." 

"  It  '11  come  right  later.  Don't  bother  now.  Ye  feel 
weak  V  tired  ?" 

"But  I'd  like  to  know  wot  it's  all  about.  My  body 
aches,  my  bones  feels  stiff,  here's  blood  on  my  throat ; 
but  my  head  feels  clear.  Where's  Sam  ?  He'll  tell  me. 
He  was  good  to  me  from  the  start.  Ye  needn't  stay. 
They's  suthin'  wrong  with  ye."  She  looked  at  her  sister 
shrinkingly  and  with  a  sudden  repulsion.  "  I  don't  like 
yer  looks.  Ye've  changed  somehow.  Go  'way  !  Sam  '11 
tell  me  wot  I  want  to  know." 

Phoebe  Ellen  shrank  from  the  room,  and  Leatherhead 
followed  her.  Then  Sam  knelt  down  by  his  wife's  bed 
and  took  her  hand.  He  had  not  intended  to  go  into  the 
details  of  the  accident  and  the  operation  and  Phoebe  El 
len's  dreadful  act  of  vengeance — for  such  he  deemed  it — 
not  knowing  any  logical  cause  for  the  deed  except  her 
unrequited  affection  for  himself ;  but  Anny  inquired  so 
rationally  about  one  thing  after  another,  and  took  his 
answers  with  a  good  sense  so  quiet  and  self-possessed, 
that  before  many  moments  she  was  mistress  of  all  he  knew, 
even  to  the  supreme  fact  of  her  wedding.  For  a  wonder, 
she  did  not  resent  it ;  she  flushed  a  little,  was  quiet  for  a 
time,  and  then  changed  the  conversation ;  that  was  all. 
And  when  it  came  out — as  presently  it  did — that  she  was 
the  actual  owner  of  the  ranch,  and  that  Phoebe  Ellen  had 
been  usurping  her  place  all  these  months,  Sam  understood 
the  misguided  woman's  final  act  fully,  and  in  his  heart 
thought  better  of  her  than  he  had  done  since  her  hostil 
ity  to  the  operation  had  been  made  manifest. 

How  long  they  talked  he  never  knew,  nor  just  what 
they  talked  about ;  only,  whenever  he  attempted  to  lead 


356 

up  to  the  subject  of  the  wedding  again,  Anny  looked  so 
strangely,  she  flushed  so  hotly,  and  turned  away  so  per 
sistently  and  sought  other  themes  of  conversation  with 
such  diligence,  that  he  was  finally  forced  to  be  silent 
altogether ;  and  presently  he  fell  to  wondering  why  she 
should  seem  to  care  so  much  about  it  and  yet  not  be 
angry.  But  finally  they  were  interrupted  by  Leather- 
head. 

"Well,  say!"  he  began.  "They're  gone  —  them  two. 
Yes,  her  V  Pinky.  A  hour  ago.  'N'  she  had  a  face  on 
'er  't  'ud  sour  vinegar.  She  says  to  me,  '  We're  goin'  f er 
a  little  ride,'  says  she,  'n'  I  never  thort  it  might  be  fer 
good,  I  swear  I  didn't.  'Ye'll  find  suthin'  in  my  room 
fer  Mr.  Tinker,'  says  she.  '  It's  on  the  beaury.  Wait  a 
hour,'  says  she,  '  then  go  'n'  give  it  to  'im.'  So  I  waited, 
'n'  'ere  'tis.  My  shape  !  'S  soon  's  I  seen  'twas  a  letter, 
I  knowed  they'd  jes'  nachelly  skipped.  The  last  I  seen 
o'  Pinky  he  was  goin'  up  the  hill,  V  he  was  hittin'  the 
bottle  hard.  He'll  be  soakin'  drunk  afore  he  gits  to  the 
station,  I  bet  a  hen  !" 

Meanwhile  Sam  was  reading  the  letter. 

"Kin  I  know  wot's  in  it  ?"  asked  Anny,  when  he  had 
finished. 

"  Yes.  They've  left  fer  good — that's  the  long  V  short 
o'  it.  Gone  to  Nebrasky.  To  the  old  place  back  there. 
She  says  she  reckons  ye'll  let  'em  live  there  'thout  troub- 
lin'  'em,  even  if  ye  do  own  half." 

' '  She's  my  sister,"  said  Anny,  belligerent  in  excuse  of 
her  too  ready  forgiveness. 

Sam  nodded. 

"'N'  Nebrasky  's  good  'nough  fer  'er.     Pore  Pinky  !" 

Anny  meditated. 

"Pore  sis,  7  say,"  she  finally  retorted.  "She  had  a 
queer  disposition — she  couldn't  help  it.  She'll  have  'er 
conscience  to  deal  with.  She  had  one  wunst — it  '11  come 
to  'er  ag'in  when  she  gits  time  to  think." 


357 


Sam  smiled. 

' '  Pore  Pinky,  I  still  say.  Fer  he'll  have  her  V  her 
conscience  both ;  'n'  they're  both  terrors  !" 

They  were  silent  for  some  time. 

"It 's  turned  out  all  right,"  remarked  Anny  at  last — 
"  leastways  fer  iis.  If  she  hadn't  been  so  wicked — " 

"Well,  wot  then?" 

"I  wouldn't  V  made  shore  o'  the  kindest,  truest  hus- 
ban'  in  the  world !"  she  cried,  suddenly  drawing  his  face 
down  to  hers. 

And  at  this  point,  though  neither  of  them  noticed, 
Leatherhead  left  the  room,  tittering  wildly  behind  his 
hand. 


THE   END 


BY   HENRY    SETON   MERRIMA1ST 


THE    SOWERS.     A  Novel.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
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"  The  Sowers,"  for  subtlety  of  plot,  for  brilliancy  of  dialogue,  and  for 
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season. —  Churchman,  N.  Y. 

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Is  an  interesting  novel  with  strong  and  exciting  scenes  in  many  of  its 
chapters.  Life  in  Russia  is  vividly  portrayed  both  in  high  places  and 
among  the  degraded  peasantry  and  the  romance  is  well  woven  through 
out. —  Observer,  N.  Y. 

WITH  EDGED  TOOLS.     A  Novel.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna 
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Mr.  Merriman  is  so  original,  and  has  such  a  nice  knack  of  putting 
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story  ought  to  be  one  of  the  successful  romances  of  the  season. — N.  Y. 
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A  remarkable  novel.  It  is  long  since  we  have  read  so  good  a  novel  as 
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FROM   ONE  GENERATION   TO  ANOTHER.     A  Novel. 
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We  have  no  hesitation  in  recommending  it  as  a  decidedly  good  and  en 
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THE  PHANTOM   FUTURE.      A  Novel.     8vo,   Paper,  35 
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To  those  who  relish  a  minute  and  searching  analysis  of  character,  and 
who  appreciate  refinement  and  purity  of  style,  we  may  recommend  "  The 
Phantom  Future."  ...  A  charming  story. — N.  Y.  Sun. 


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BY  GEORGE  DU  MAUKIER 


ENGLISH  SOCIETY.      Sketched   by  GEORGE    DU  MAURIER. 

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quisite  English,  and  with  such  vivid  dramatic  picturing,  that  it  is  only  com 
parable  ...  to  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  a  spring  morning  at  the 
end  of  a  dragging  winter.  ...  A  thoroughly  unique  story. — N.  ¥.  Sun. 

PETER  IBBETSON.  With  an  Introduction  by  his  Cousin, 
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There  are  so  many  beauties,  so  many  singularities,  so  much  that  is 
fresh  and  original,  in  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  story  that  it  is  difficult  to  treat  it 
at  all  adequately  from  the  point  of  view  of  criticism.  That  it  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  books  that  have  appeared  for  a  long  time  is,  how 
ever,  indisputable. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  pathos  is  true,  the  irony  delicate,  the  satire  severe  when  its 
subject  is  unworthy,  the  comedy  sparkling,  and  the  tragedy,  as  we  have 
said,  inevitable. — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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